Every spring in Texas
brings a wash of wildflowers,
and with them, the scent
of the previous year.

Overcome the taboo
of disturbing stalk and petal
and slip down into a pool
of bluebonnets and indian paintbrush.

The hum and drone of bees
swing from stamen to pistil,
whispering incomprehensibly
but redolent of nostalgia.

A warm bath, drawn even
of such blooms in sun
will chill and prune if, in a rapt daze,
we indulge too long.

One last stretch among them;
one last glance over my shoulder
and I catch the heady scent of
my next spring in Texas.

". . .write me a poem. . .", she said.

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