santos scribes

like a pot in a windowsill

I long for more

more air,

more earth

the glowing wink of a night sky-

the give of Terra Cotta

is still, somehow, so unforgiving.

From my perch beside the windowsill

I see soft, round starts of pea plants

how they’ve made their way into the tulips

in spite of our careful planting

I know without knowing

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 find rest somewhere

in the sureness of it

of potted parameters,

and bulbs without blooms

in coils that green and go round and round forever.