These flowers, especially, remind me of my early childhood.

My mom introduced me to them when the world was yet suffused in green
stems with leaves unfurling
grass still thin, and vines in new growth just budding
daffodils fading but johnny jump-ups remaining
early dandelions and
everything wet with rain
the sky open to my view, wide and pale
when not grey or with storm clouds swirling in march wind strong,
and trees unclothed, their bark glistening in rain

i was far closer to the bells and grass and leaves in those days
almost to grandma’s peony heads
and certainly within reach, to mom’s surprise
and grandma’s amusement
the first lesson in gathering wildflowers being
—they don’t grow in gardens
well, not usually, and it is impolite to assume, apparently—
but grandma did not mind.

Then there were the robins returning
and, on the ground sometimes, treasure:
egg shells!
that brilliant bright deep sky blue, portentous—
such unexpected color misplaced amongst dark brown and green and
creamy ivory bells calming, matching edges of shards broken—
alarm or celebration?
selfish child, i understood so little then
only love.

I hold a shard
even now, one cannot tell, only
the absence of yellow a clue.