The inevitability of rain hangs over Pandora
with sighs that release a deluge of weeping clouds.
Outside the window, blossoms push their whiteness
through the pear tree’s burgeoning leaves.
Water bedazzles its branches in shimmering droplets
refracting light into prisms of spring.
In the distance, mist hangs its vaporous cape
to obfuscate the edges of deciduous woods
where critters nuzzle off the edges of morning’s call,
and plants wiggle their way toward the seasons’ coming spoils.
From the barn, the feral cat howls her heat.
Aborting my poem, I phone the vet.
Brenda Warren 2016