by Kit Steitz
Overnight, we are spring again.
We loom under latticed tree
branches. The fog rises and
settles into the shadow of
our early upstarts, impetuous
beginnings with their toes
wiggling in crusted snow.
we are critical designers,
dissecting the curved mollusk
home, exposed in the melted
snow, the crush of slime beneath
our heel, a slick broken salt mine.
We are vindictive, glove-ready, to
untangle this hollow home and
plant Iris bulbs and daffodils.
Kit Steitz is a poet in Columbia, Missouri. They have an army of geriatric cats and dogs and almost exclusively write their poems while sitting on rocks in creeks and glaring at people.
You can find them @AmazingKitikins.