Poems, for me, are usually gifts that I receive. It may take hours and days to unwrap them and work with them, but they come to me a pure grace that I must refine in order to find the best of the gift. This morning early, I received this gift below. Hopefully, I have worked my part out to dig up the grace of it.

Yesterday, in the freshly turned earth
I sprinkled seed
With green hope that the wet, dark grit
That boasts the sweet smell of transformation
Would birth basil for fall pesto
And summer marigolds of yellow and orange.

This morning I find that others also have
Spring fever.
The red maple across the yard
Has flung its red propellored wings to the promising soil.
And among the veined, delicate embryos
More wings
White
And triangular
From a night moth
Whose body has gone to feed the wren chicks.