You can tell the spring

by how many petals on the ground.

 Life. Industry. Wind.

You can tell our life by socks herded,

shirts left near the hamper

or stacked, pressed into their drawer.

Toys also, that keep pushing their way towards kitchen territory,

what is strewn to remind.

And what papers, essays, words are falling around my feet,

my tickled springtime ankles.

And these gusts just keep bringing the pretty up–

the piles of pink petals

I’d love to scoop up

if they would not collect

in the street,

huddle near gutters,

or whistle past my head

like they could get caught in my lashes.

Spring is collecting its piles here.