Red, White, and Blue

by Paul J. Willis

In early March, the toyon berries hang
in embers, fading under pale explosions
of ceanothus—a froth, a kindling,
winter offering itself to spring.

We walk beneath their intertangling,
unsure of this season in our lives.

Then overhead, a scrub jay passes
suddenly from bough to bough,
for that one moment hidden
in its own allegiance to the sky.

—from Rosing from the Dead

Poem of the Month: March 2014

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