Burnished Gold and a Puddle

It’s close to spring; I see it in my window box.

The early morning sun creeps north, thawing at the columbine roots.

We do not give life up easily.

Some say Eros was the son of Iris by the West Wind.

A wanton child he was, torching hearts at random with his burning golden arrows. 

Some say it was the gold that did it.

I came across a small pool residing in a sidewalk

 (Temporarily, of course)

A few fall leaves still shelter there,

Wet and warm with burnished gold.