spring fields at season’s birth
roar with the winds only heard
in ear canals
and two or three trees randomly clustered
isolated, they scream
who knew branches can be so loud?
like lions on the bluff they bellow
unable to break the valley gusts
between mountains and sea
for chaos because calm comes
a horizon dark, backlit by light
pushed forward toward raging puddles
where tiny ships must be sinking
their SOS unheard, we leap
we watch our wandering feet,
sponge underfoot cushions
step over clay-cracked puzzles,
pieces that once removed,
may just open the gaping chasm
and draw us down
so we grow back
as rogue tulips:
in a field of white.
~ Emily C.
*Photography by me. Spent the day at the Skagit Valley tulip festival yesterday.