Up
The wind is blowing from the south up the coast. Earthworms, by the dozens, cross the wet asphalt. It is the inside out, backward time of year, where we dote over bulbs. The ruffled tuba of the daffodil sings you made it this far, and the petals of the lavender crocus, set sail not to travel, but to dance in the wind, singing only you can be you.