February holds its breath
like an ancient truth
in the mind’s quiet corner
while poppies open
their wild orange mouths
to sing what’s always been.
March moves like memory—
everything certain,
everything known,
hawks drawing circles
in the warming air
tracing the paths
they’ve always followed.
April arrives steady
as morning fog,
constant as the pause
between heartbeats.
The finches know something
about persistence,
how each beat keep cadence
that’s always held them.
Time flows like water
over river stones
that have six decades been here.
The wildflowers don’t question
their returning seasons.
They simply continue
being who they’ve always been.
