I see
freshly picked produce in
even slices atop white plastic stained
by multicolor droplets.
The colors blend like plants under packed ice.
Later, I'm walking,
and I'm reminded of an espresso machine's
buzz. Of my childhood,
family dog cuddling close,
of Warm.
Back in the kitchen, where the produce sits,
there's a dead zebra fly on the snow-lined windowsill.
Not farther, there's a dead basil plant, stuck
in its ***.

If I let it free, if I watered the plant, if I, if I, if I...

But it's early spring, I'm reminded.
Under my feet, crocuses bloom.