1
You're in my coral apron with the tractor patch,
kneeling on raised soil and sunlight, squinting
at the camera. A zephyr wind blows my hair over
the lens: part of you comes through part of me.

2
The flowerbed is made. Daffodils proudly present
trumpets to their maker. You insist I get in the photo:
show up the flowers. I'm in grubby overalls and your
cotton tee. Lucky chases Boots the cat. I look away:
my profile pointing to dust tails.

3
In Chicago's meadow: Wrigley Field, you hold up
a plastic cup of Bud Light. Ryno blasts one past
the ivy leaves, gets a holy cow from Harry:
your bliss on 110 film.

4
I bring in crocus for the saffron,
blossoms for their fragrance and
call out to you. I open the pantry door.
You, hiding, take a close-up of freckles on my nose.

5
A ladybug leaps from a calyx to your arm;
light leans forward. You hand me a calla
with a band in it. I jump into your arms,
kissing before yessing: a gift from a passerby
with a Polaroid and quick spring.




�2007 by Yolanda Calderon-Horn