May, but the morning chill grips with a fist.
Horizontal, thick and slow, I wish
for spring’s easy spreading warmth.
Blossoms float like a mirage on
flowering trees in these grasslands,
unlike my old home in the Sonoran desert
where Cinco is a bright, hot, cerveza-swilling,
margarita-sipping holiday. Confused,
like the meadowlark crying out in last week’s
snow flurry, I try to order my thoughts,
pretending circumstances cycle in seasonal order.
Before daylight, drawn back into sleep,
I dream of my childhood home in Iowa,
the front door unlocked and ajar, open to a snow drift.
Are there intruders, or did the pressure
of sudden wind pop it open?
Not taking chances,
I grasp a square-edged snow shovel,
ready for a surprise guest.
Pushing the door open
with two fingers, I creep inside.
No surprises waiting downstairs
or on the second floor.
All rooms appear empty, untouched.
My eyes open to raw sunshine
filtering through bamboo shades.
In this tumbledown Arizona caravan,
May fifth dawns ripe
with surprise and illusion.