Violets

 

It is spring and the violets are here.

My children offer them
like currency—every petal
says "I love you."

There is no "not," only yes, do.

They are rich and set
flowers in their hair, fumbling
among golden wisps and curls.

It is spring. The compost bin is steaming

and we spin to mix things
up, we spin until we are dizzy,
then spend the afternoon

free and digging
in the dirt, hugging

the earth with our fingertips,
like blind worms, consuming
the soil, consumed by the soil.

It is spring and the violets are
here, the compost is steaming.