santos scribes

Like a pot on a windowsill

I long for more

air

more earth

mote glowing winks from a darkened sky

the give of Terra Cotta

still, somehow, so unforgiving.

my perch looks out beside the windowsill

I see the soft, round starts of pea plants

they’ve made their way into the tulips

(in spite of our care)

and I know those 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 for a minute

in the sureness of it

in my potted parameters,

and in bulbs without blooms

in coils that green and go round and round forever.