Plum blossoms, magnolias, dogweeds, clematis
the boy in the camp doesn’t know the names of the flowering buds
thought the branches had no more room
sagging under the weight of winter’s cold gray
emptiness in full bloom wherever he has lived
cold rooms with beige walls and army cot green blankets
the bluest sky his mother’s eyes
he hasn’t seen them for months
he’s been sent ahead
for a better life
deemed old enough to make the journey
to earn a little something
to send back
for his sisters
three of them
and his brother
his cousin, really
but there is room on the floor for another mat
and a boy could be helpful in a house of all girls
menfolk gone
in search of work
fields in need of sowing
crops in need of harvest
factories in need of hands
anyone in need of anything.
Isn’t that the way?
We scurry and fret
ignore crocuses unfurling at our feet
stare past plum trees
into the cherry blossom webcam
complain of pollen
while the taste of dirt
lingers in his mouth.