The window above my kitchen sink
is
chronically in need of cleaning.
But the
annual push of yellow,
courtesy of
self-sufficient bulbs
has
bolstered my spirits for weeks
through that
needy pane of glass.
The blooms
are shriveling now,
atop still
resolute spring-green stems.
I notice the
smudges again.
Contemplating vinegar and newspaper.
But above
the birdhouses,
the
wisteria’s tiny hands are unfolding,
just in
time.
Looking
beyond the glass,
there is always
consolation.
