And up from down in the daffodil of me skyellows a whistley music
an air like the robin rolls onto a March afternoon
tweeked by the vernal unfurling. Maybe.

It spurts from the base of my back through my head
stretched out on a green of caretaken grass
or stood among the stars of a full, February cherry.

Or just now, there, over the kitchen table,
through the first floor window, that sudden pink,
bursting through the blue cloudless unending.

You can see it all, from here,
there by next door’s old corrugated makeshift shed,
just over the nearly done cracked, concurring, backyard breezeblock wall.
It all, that pink.