Every
spring in
Texas
brings a wash of
wildflowers,
and with them, the scent
of the previous year.
Overcome the
taboo
of disturbing stalk and petal
and slip down into a pool
of
bluebonnets and
indian paintbrush.
The hum and drone of
bees
swing from
stamen to
pistil,
whispering incomprehensibly
but
redolent of
nostalgia.
A warm bath, drawn even
of such blooms in sun
will chill and prune if, in a rapt daze,
we
indulge too long.
One last
stretch among them;
one last glance over my shoulder
and I catch the heady scent of
my next
spring in
Texas.
". . .write me a poem. . .", she said.