santos scribes

Like a pot on a windowsill

I long for more

air

more earth

the glowing wink in a night sky

The give of Terra Cotta

is still, somehow, so unforgiving.

From my perch lookout beside the windowsill

I see the soft, round starts of pea plants

how they’ve made their way into the tulips

(in spite of our careful planting)

and I know the perfect pouts

of apricot and ivory

will not come to pass this year

only thick wisps of leaves

and garden beds gone by.

I rest somewhere

in the sureness of it

my potted parameters,

and bulbs without blooms

in coils that green and go round and round forever.