Flower in an Oil Can

A warm sun gently sifting through
the chill December branches.
You are to me the unexpected.
Unannounced upon
my diligent disrespect
an entrance without herald,
spinning around the sycamore seeds
to show your untroubled dance
. . . you come.

A child's laugh in a storm.
A bird's nest in the barbed wire.
Am I awake yet
that I might feel a hand
upon my face
cool on hot skin
calm on turmoil.

Could I shake my head
that all decaying dust
might shudder from me.
That water on parched land
might announce,
that a flower in an oil can
might reveal,
that eyes once crusted over
might flash,
to tell me that,
hope . . . is still embedded.