Host to all living
    things, Earth’s Spring welcomes all,
    even alien weeds.

    Tardy blossoming
    for roses, lilacs, myrtle,
    becomes tardy spring.

    Purpling greening lawns,
    creeping myrtle provides grass
    an excuse to grow.

    Ah, spring, though late,
    is spring sprung and spread:
    balm to icy blahs.

    —Albert B. Casuga

  2. Dear letter that arrives long after its sender is gone,

    I could not tell you either what blooms came early or late.
    Thinking of them now, their names ardent as signatures
    on yellowing parchment– *adelfa, rosal, gumamela;
    milflores, santan, champaca*– what lingers is memory
    of their collective scent leafing out of drawers, wardrobes
    filled with linen and old lace. *Dear Prima,* on the back
    of a creased photograph, *think of me sometimes
    when I am gone. Your loving cousin.* Who is this
    woman with dark hair piled up in a bun, her neck
    arching like the throat of a lily that blooms one
    night of the year and one night only? Outside,
    the wind has no regard for our little nostalgias.
    It scatters the ruffled sheets of crepe myrtle
    on the grass, sends them again on their way.

    ~ Luisa A. Igloria
    04 21 2011

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