Frost evaporates with deliberate stroke and nuzzle
the way I coax my son awake on sleepy Monday mornings
pollen dust in his eyes.
brush your teeth
Shirt on inside-out, tag like a tongue flaps under his chin.
Neither of us have the heart to suggest he change.
First shoots in the garden and he screams Spring.
Other signs: robins return from a better place and forsythia.
I call it Sorsythia, he says. A plant of ancient times. Food
for the heroic god Sorsythianius, the one who every morning rose
without a whine on the way to school.
Reds and yellows alternate. Straight-lined,
straight-laced. Nothing about this New England style bucks his glee.
In the car, he tells me the petals make cups
to better embrace the honey bee
just doing his job.