Coming from within a rising hedge
Of voluptuous white oleander –
I sensed a turmoil; one writhe
Seduced better than before
And within the naked boughs
Of some palo verde – in a rustle
Of few leaves – I thought I saw
Among them a potential
So quick and sullen, I almost not
Deemed it worthy a mention
Until a lone grackle squawked
That vernal suspicion
Then the wind flirted with a sage
Whose mane shimmied – fervid –
As if the breath of Earth had encouraged
Spring to dance for him.