It’s cold. Mid-day
and the hepatica flowers are still
only half-open, nodding
on their thin stalks.
My mother tallies them up—
stroke-marks in her notebook.
At the top of a hemlock tree,
a porcupine sleeps in a sunlit
halo of quills.
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Nice, Dave. You know how I love them.
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Yes, I remember. I’m glad you liked it.
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Oh, I like this very much. “nodding / on their thin stalks” and “stroke-marks in her notebook” and of course that last line.
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Thanks. Glad that resonated with you.