Crocus We are up, up, up, sky-dancing Melt winds are here, with cups and drink for daughters, we daughters, so ready Preying on poets under pink blossoms while gone in a deep throat sigh coming from the naïve heart Peer over his shoulder, see what he writes “The first time such love has ever been.” First time?  So strange, these poets We are, up up up, sky and dancing	Pomegranate Through forest of birchbone and still sap         loosing its crown of simple gold         for a mourner’s shroud and fields ruled by scarecrows         too wise now to be taken down and the rows of empty, sleeping apple bower and less His hair is now rich with the scent of woodsmoke Those who love him, who love the fading time         cut the sun to bleeding He settles down to sleep and die and wait
Fern trailing in the shades cool shades because everyone’s reaching          for the sun and that sunlight is green dancing through leaves and lives and          the mad abandon of a garden’s growth with the heat comes the love of the shade here close to the          ground trailing slowly in green flesh maybe the rain will come soon leaving small droplets of water collected on one of the waxier          leaves here and the prisms caught within the droplet will be hours of          entertainment until the sun finally comes down again, leaving the sultry heat          without a point of ignition and leaving the rest in spent contentment that tomorrow is          another day and this goes on forever but the unpleasant thought that this cannot last forever does not          make the moment sweeter like it should instead the sunlight is watched and half-heartedly cursed         through the green filter of the leaves	Mistletoe White. Only in white. Could we survive. Can you hear a heartbeat? Is it fast?  Is it slow? Or simply warm? Only here.  Do you notice. Against the silent white.
	Copyright 2002, Zach Nelson