Spring will come despite the rain—
wild mustard and garlic a tangled skein
of yellow and white; forget-me-nots
on hillsides and in puddling ruts
misting in drifts of blue.
Mothwing petals sift past quince,
blooming bare-branched beneath
the plumed plum. Despite the rain,
despite the pain—or is it from,
or through? Prepositions don’t matter;
spring will come.
