Spring

 To me,                
 it is a hand,
 a hand like a flower.

 It is not a flower,
 a leaf,
 a blossom set like a cup.

 It is
 a gesture,
 it is
 something,

 in a country
 so washed,
 with a pearled light,
 under the blood of the sun,
 —who could understand this light?

• HD