As if I could summon spring to stay with me
with an oven-bloomed waft of lemon and ginger,
leave this chill winter with one last dusting,
powdered sugar licked from my fingers.
As if I could pull from the earth
the buds of my mother’s quarter century Graham Thomas
with the tame sweetness of this grocery-store bundle,
sunshine in cellophane.
As if, if I stood again in that red clay where I grew,
I could divide, clippers in hand,
which stem the wounds came from,
and which one
Stretching toward spring with all my might
and with the prompts at Write ALM