Poinsettia & The Equinox & —

A poem comprised of notes from my phone during March, April, and May in L.A.

photo by writer at Descanso Gardens, Spring 2022

(Early March)
They say we are languishing, which is
to say we are at the edges —
hushed inside the liminal —
the poinsettia bloom
here in the basin,
half day, half night,
in March.

My student says that she is grateful to just be alive.
The others agree: yes, just that is enough.

(Late March)
Why do we get mad at people when they change?
Do we yell at the lilacs for wilting?
Or tulips for bending towards the light?
At milkweed for sprouting forth seed?

(Mid-April)
It is a full moon, he says —
My favorite thing, he says —
Straight ahead of us,
as though we could drive to the end
of the 105,
right to the edge of its glow.
It’s missing a part on the top, he says —
then he accelerates, turns the wheel.
I think it is the clouds.