We sit with pen bayonet in hand
as warriors of written word.
Beings that are drenched in verse
that rains on battlefield of page.
We speak so eyes of other side awaken
to know it’s time for change.
We echo from hearts that bleed
to anoint with our wisdom.
YES, we are the warriors that move
inside grace to hug an eye
and shift all
to create new beginnings.

White-furred hill flowers bow
Gust-bent,
Wet in April snow,
Lavender beneath their
Downy coats.

Tender soldiers of spring
Grasp wind-blown gravel steeps,
Stand to beckon brown grass,
Soft-call the life in sapless trees
To ring with green again
Against Old Bully Winter’s
Blustering.

Quaking aspens,
Earliest to leaf in yellow-green,
Curling grama grasses,
Tough food for buffalo,
Cannot boast first life each Montana spring;
Only zombie-lichens,
Rock-fast mosses
Throw off winter’s death
Before the crocus' rise.

On eastern Montana hills
No street-hemmed dandelions
Colonize in chute-dropped ranks;
No time-tamed tulips
Live on wind-round knolls.

Here, the yucca’s bayonet-sharp ******;
Here, the wild onions’ scent-strong hold;
But these arrive after early chill,
Following the purple crocus on the hill.