Coming from within a rising hedge
  Of voluptuous white oleander –
I sensed a turmoil; one writhe
  Seduced better than before

And within the naked boughs
  Of some palo verde – in a rustle
Of few leaves – I thought I saw
  Among them a potential

So quick and sullen, I almost not
  Deemed it worthy a mention
Until a lone grackle squawked
  That vernal suspicion

Then the wind flirted with a sage
  Whose mane shimmied – fervid –
As if the breath of Earth had encouraged
  Spring to dance for him.