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Spring, a poem by Hiromi Yoshida

                                                        by Hiromi Yoshida

Mud-speckled snow; clouded icicles glint a jagged fringe along SUV bumpers—
                                snow angels are whirred unwinged smudges on spongy ground;
                                                           gutters gurgle, sputter last night’s rainwater; remnant

Campbell’s Chunky Soup warms, coagulates,
a flaking tomato rind in Teflon-scratched saucepans
blunt plastic spatulas scrape away—the dregs of

winter soaked, washaway in rosy Dawn
liquid detergent—to coalesce again in askew
Ground Hog shadow. Spring,

the dilettante strumpet, gathers her chorus
of invisible doves in her snowy, mud-flecked skirts.

Resurrect the gold daffodil starburst—
                                     peonies dropping overblown heads; rabbits
                                                 nestled in backyard grass, statuesque, unblinking,

quivering ears; robins whirring jeweled wingtips
in futile pothole baths.

Hiromi Yoshida, recognized as one of Bloomington’s “finest and most outspoken poets,” is a finalist for the 2019 New Women’s Voices Chapbook Competition, sponsored by Finishing Line Press. Her poems have been published in literary magazines and journals that include Indiana Voice Journal, The Indianapolis Review, Tipton Poetry Journal, The Asian American Literary Review, and The Rain, Party, & Disaster Society. Hiromi loves to contemplate the oddities of life, such as mismatched buttons, abandoned houses, and birdsong in thunderstorms.