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Cassandra Robison

On the east stucco wall of my home, gladioli
thrust from sandy ground; two feet tall
blades promising blooms, born from bulbs,
birds’ eggs in my palms; I birthed them
into damp April earth, patted them down,
blessed them on dirty knees.

Every morning, now, in early June,
coffee mug in hand, I check on them all —
touch the jasmine fingers beginning to furl
through the white trellis, take my seat on the worn,
familiar rocker in the east corner
of the screen porch. I may see Hopkins’ falcon
arabesque from a perch in the treeline beyond,
soar into the sky, scouting territory
he’s claimed with finer eyes than mine.
No matter. I see what I need to see. At midlife,
perspective narrows, spring is a bullet. I turn

my chair a little richer towards the sun,
a secret I am learning from the sunflowers
planted at fenceline from seeds, that in their green
wisdom learned to tilt their broad faces
ever towards light.