The sun's golden lines trill
the creek. We dig in, eat
charred vegetables, grilled
shrimp skewers and drink
cold beer; blue pear blossom air;
descended light, nothing
penitent in our mouths.
Hair hanging, our bell heads
tilted back like the proud
calla lilies, cheekbones burn red.
March blooms in strands
of the wind’s unseen tresses.
We sit on the deck, no sound
from our lips, no supplication
needed: blessing continues
without calendar or prescribed pain.
Even the godless peel back sleeves,
receive warmth from a sky without rain.