Lull in the wind,
April rain pattered on streets.
A dusk-yellow share of sky
formed on the once feral horizon
like a shaving of wood on dark trousers.
Clouds broke. Dark waters
turned placid and turquoise.
Amid pinks and asters
she desired to live as a child
with thieving fingers gathering to give,
but it was the blossoms which gathered,
and she roamed on empty-handed
with persistent musical themes
of the pistil and petal rising high in her throat
and peremptory songs of bloom
and flamboyant flowering climbing the lattice of her limbs.
Jeff Burt lives in Santa Cruz County, California. He has work published or forthcoming in Star 82 Review, Thrice Fiction, Windfall, Typehouse, and The Cortland Review. He enjoys the aroma of freshly sharpened number two pencils.