Scattered Spirea blaze reddish/gold,

flaming space-heater globes, warming

my brown garden iced by lethargic air.

If I lie naked among them could I thaw,

and seep to meld with nourished root

capillaries spiraling to a fruitful place

of spring stirrings and glorious blooms?

∞

Could I, in late March break ground,

a green sliver twisting to light only,

sated with discernment of all things,

yet ordained by the flow only to flow;

a Buddha sitting under The Tree of Life,

hands cupped, not in prayer, but empathy?