Pollen

March arrives on the winged backs of bees,

clinging first to our windowpanes and

second to our lungs,

for a moment both lovely and lethal

as Carolina jessamine to the colorless pinewoods

These days we take our coffee black,

for honey rises thick in our throats,

early spring's sweet poison

yellowing our tongues

like old envelopes yet to be opened

Muted, we wait at the glass door

for the jaundiced dawn to break,

for the golden tide to pull back

like parched lips from a smile,

unveiled earth laid out like a welcome mat

before the bright green door

of a new day