– after Nancy Reddy

I’ve never longed for a longer winter, for those ghosts that bed
down with geraniums, then float loose, like early pollen.

My father and I flip pennies heads-up when they glisten
in our paths to give others better luck. Everywhere, violets.

Violets on the sofa, violets in the neighbor’s yard, violets
suffusing the vodka, the oils, childhood’s velvety ditches.

Yellow-crowned night herons coast past, chevrons
on a loose wind. One stalked the yard and flipped my heart.

Thirst breaks each of us and roots are the best telepaths.
Rain-soaked, we dream of wearing our pronouns like blue rings.

Dogwoods balance their yellow saucers, dazzling waitresses.
Another spring cheers on the ephemerals, those pop divas:

ragwort, trout lily, trillium. I have a thickness of names
about me, like a grief coat. My cousin chewed ice

as we walked down a country road. My cousin caught
a grasshopper and named it Fred. My brother knew

all the hawks were named Steven. I’m glad, for this.
Spring is a piano lesson and a treasure map.

I’ve said its name so often it sprints past me. This thirst
will break us like soil. First, we spread the marigold seeds,

those black-flecked splinters, then sunflowers from nowhere
open their umbrellas above the strawberries, weaving their nets.