The Real Hope Poem by Steven Federle

Spring proceeds,
despite the cold
Pacific winds.

Storms that should have
blown through months ago,
now come lately,
blustering that late is better
than not at all,
and gather clouds, complaining of the hour;
they huddle and decide to get it over with
all in a day, and squeeze
fountains out of the
heavy April air.

This is the moment!

At last the iris arises,
sleek, and slender, and plain
curvaceous head,
concealing glory

‘til rain all finished,
the sun having drenched
time and emerald space
with his golden flame,

the flower unfurls,
and stirs to nectarine passion
courteous bees, and
lingering birds.