Long Larks of April

The flagrant flowers of sensing
battle bees for their sweetness,
worm-cast long larks of April’s song
beneath galaxies older than our universe.

A vernal kick of egg from the nest,
tornadic bugs float through the machine,
Chrysalis dye and wastewater downstream.
Not every gift survives the extreme.

Unfolding in the volatile magic of color,
the month is trapped in digital haunting
butterflying the world, spatchcocking chickens,
ghosts crushed and framed in golden ochre.

Spring’s storm-green yields to yellow.
Shadows drown in vortices of indigo and azure
against landscaped shades of cinnabar,
purple-bruised rocks, blight gone mellow.

On monitoring runs for rare flowers of microclimes,
seed banks of coastal bluffs and serpentine soils
yield three whites for blue sanpaku eyes:
Sebastopol meadowfoam and bell-shaped fritillaries.

Flourishes backtrack in summer’s urge to skip May.
Diminished seasons crack the balm of existence,
ripping the mask from nature’s violence. Firestorms.
The majesty of grief speaks in violet tones.
See: gentleness is mastery over nature. Swarm.

The day yields to a single white cactus flower, pink-tipped,
feathered flying saucer, fleeting queen of the night,
ultimate symbol of ephemeral beauty. Reason
blooms in nocturnal moon-magic, then slips away,

riding the silver bend of the endless rising canon
as the infinite loop turns through the most dangerous season.