Piercing warmth, fleeting reach
penetrating briefly just enough and enough.
But maybe a little more enough here,
sinking, seeping lyrical ground.
Roots sighing somewhere down,
restricted, richness-steeped and stewing brew.
This redness roiling sounds and sounds
and eventually out a hum…
past green growth shining,
humming something future known,
pounding pulse of winter’s spring
‘til finally full blast bloom…
song of secret dances.