My hands are in the dirt

My hands are in the dirt

the ground is soft

from seasonal rain

after the shadows

of deep winter

trap me inside

yellow Oxalis flowers

are a blanket

my fingers seek

the weeds between

tendrils of stonecrop

and tiny echeveria fallen

from the mother plant

February storms

may still destroy

newborn crowns

the sliver of sun

over my neighbor's house

breaks raindrops into

pastel prisms

assurances of spring