Along the Llano and San Saba,
the bluebonnets bloom
followed soon in their blue glory
by Indian paintbrush’s layers of red.
But the verbena is always first,
grasping the earth like spots
of purple moss, the first
signs of spring among the hills.
I remember those colors
when here above the Missouri
I see the delicate petals
of the white spring beauty
streaked with pink and rose,
blushing in their nakedness
in the sun after the ice
of winter has unshackled the loam.
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