Finally, spring
but also war again,
this noxious weed
we keep trying to pull up,
get rid of. This time
not us but always someone,
who knows someone,
who knows someone else
dead, a trampled flower.

Shoots sprout daffodil petals.
They wave yellow heads in the wind,
fighting the sway and toss.
The sky now blue, or almost blue,
shines between bouts of rain.
We live in a quiet neighborhood
where barking dogs’ rat-a-tat
break the silence.
Down our street, no crying
unless a mother pushes
a fussy baby in her stroller.
No bombs, either.

Pollen floats down,
settling everywhere,
a sulfur-yellow ash.
The sun pulls leaves
up from battered soil. How
easy it is to take for granted
seasons of regrowth.
We mumble about weather,
stuffy noses, our covered-in-yellow
cars as if the cocoon we live in
will be enough to save
everyone.