The sandpiper stares at the pickled sky,
whetted for tornadoes. Wind planes
off the plants, atrophied in their pots,

abreast to the thunderhead. I water,
and the leaves play harbinger rain
on my legs. Light washes the sandpiper,

knees high, white ruff to the wind.
A flicker on takeoff, then the screen
door springs open and I am in.

~

I finger the stems, the veins that pulse
blank chimes as a stream winds
from my watering can through the dirt.

Morning-gold leaves now skirt
the balcony, accordion from planters
to rail, like water striders.

~

And the limbs try on new souls,
scheme my hands to the soil that turns
my blood. I pick apart the stuck

buds, the spider’s lace of roots
tubed from the black, the original
feed. I bleed, strum the seed,

my fingers spool as if returning
from sleep. A white feather,
the fuzz of fronds, a green bulb, then
a small fruit—red as my thumb.