The winds in May are still rusty from winter
and our crystal spring arrives stop-and-go,
not here in full force yet this year, not dense
enough to clear the rust or make the iris

dance, though the poppies are present and
there are star lilies and peonies to tempt my
eye and my wallet at the grocery. They stand
alongside the strawberries, buxom and red
and on sale this morning. A spritely breeze

blew me home with promises of summer
tenderness, of willow branches sashaying
and of wild grasses amassed in tangles that
attract the artist’s vision and able brush.
My purple orchid is thriving and the bees are

as fat as baby mice, clever and cute. On the
mossy margins of the northern side there
are human infants with their midnight tears,
waiting to be dried by serious fathers who walk
deep purple streets in slow rhythms to quiet

them. Newborns gently held, heads wobbling
like little drunks dripping saliva on their dads’
49er sweatshirts, their moms catching a rare nap.
Watching quietly from my place in life, I poem.

© 2013, poem, Jamie Dedes, All rights reserved
Photo courtesy of morgueFile