Just a mood,
the succulence of spring awakening senses,
almond trees against school railings, marking time.
Just a thread,
a telephone wire stirring up history, a spring itch
to seek out truths long buried; dark, restless bulbs.
a soft pink sky cushioning bare trees and parakeets circling.
And all of us, scattered, treading on those secrets,
hoping they will not seed.