The white noise of April
searches for a noun of crocus
in a prairie empty of grammar
muffled in mute snow

This is a kind of rising
An aria that exits and enters
In a plush sigh
anticipating the soft gait of robins
the bellow of wheat

Soon, she will turn inward and ride
the melody until a new mouth
opens with a snap
dragon whispering, softly,
"May I?"