forsythia

here on this clustered edge of the world

the yellow banners are flush in waiting,

april a breathy promise neither cruel nor

giving, but a propulsion of change

always change, here, where the sea calls

us

and on every scrolling report, the oil

flames well up and lick the underside

of the sky, blossom reds and oranges and

the black smoke of forever, a constant forever

and we wait pressed in our small houses

against the onrush of season-

outside, beneath the sweeping headlights

of passing jets, the first yellow of spring

unfolds and blooms and breathes its

waiting, heady into the salt-sweet air