right hand pointing

into spring

when mesquite breaks out

in lacy, chartreuse leaves; 

 

when ocotillo greens

and the tips of its branches

thicken with clusters of buds 

 

bursting into the brilliance

of scarlet flowers.

I see the blotches of scarlet 

 

out there now through my window,

blood-red against the azure flesh

of the sky, smarting like fresh cuts.