So much right now, on every corner, the blocks
in between, so much you’d think that it’s chased away
the sad, the blues, that no one can possibly die when
rock star flowers show off on their spring stage.

But no, we look up into the wild blue yonder, inhale
clear skies as pollen rains on the cars and some of it
sneaks up our noses. We plant the herb garden and
hope, despite knowing that we all have expiration

dates. Some of them arrive for those we know
on these breezy days, as we tuck seedlings into warm
earth beds, the cycle we’d rather forget of endings
arriving amid new life. It is our way to hope,

the happenstance of four-leaf clovers a one-in-
5,000 chance for luck, for love, for good fortune.
Here’s the thing: Should you find that four-leafletted
clover, keep looking. It’s likely to produce

more quartered offspring nearby. Look beyond
the green to polished stones gleaming, morning glories
climbing, to mountain-peak spring in a whirlpool
of wild. Claim the color, gather it, hold it close

to your sturdy heart. Then scatter every hue like
poppy seeds, with no idea if any will morph into
slender stems with petals the color of fresh lava.
Doesn’t matter. Share all the color you can,

even the humdrum—
porcelain, sagebrush, raven, old barn,
chanterelle, bone.
Glorious, all.