Page the Second


A fronte praecipitium a tergo lupi. (In front of you, a precipice. Behind you, wolves.)

Thursday, April 10, 2014

Dia Diaz--Spring Is Poem

We're doing a Spring Senses poem. To see the parameters, go here.

So this is my Spring Senses poem:
It's a wonder anything grows in this oven!
Spring looks like the flowers on the orange trees and the chartreuse of palo verde buds opening into the wind (and the beginning of nine more months of summer).
Spring sounds like little cactus wren babies cheeping in the cactus (and people sneezing from the palo verde pollen).
Yup. The one thing that grows in our yard--a weed.
Spring feels like the breeze coming off sunbaked sand (and the searing pain of a cactus sticker poking you in the foot).
There's probably a lizard in there somewhere doing push-ups.
Spring smells like cactus flowers baking and creosote in the 10 minute rainstorm (and all the road tar washing down the street with your yard topsoil).
Spring tastes like the promise of prickly pear jam (and defeat at not killing off the wasp colony which has invaded your bird houses).
© 2014 by H. Linn Murphy  

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