Spring Bird Calling

Desire rubs itself into your palms like rusty gravel,
into your face like those wrenching wringing drying clothes
hanging by the grace of god.  But then,

See the image of that flower root,
sucking sunlight into the earth.
Hear the image of a torn root mending,
hidden there under the sidewalk rain.

I have a garden with a marigold,
a yellow pansy in the window box,
a tree living a shepherdless life.