behind
the snowball bush
springtime streams
like shooting stars
slicing through
all winter left
behind

does he love me?
on sprigs of rosemary
petals aren't meant to be
plucked
it hurts my knuckles
to strip this yard
of such color
or, does he not?

behind
the blackberry bush
thorns snag me
back to when
i loved april
without him

besides
i want our love to mock
these blossoms
for everywhere
i smell them
even if my favorite
tree is bare