Meryl Natchez

March in California

All week, blossoms, white flower foam outlines a black branch,
whole trees startle the eye in shades of pink.

This is what ball gowns aim for:
shape made glorious by the perfect ornament.

And underfoot, everywhere, petals: pink confetti
mixes with trash on a San Francisco sidewalk,

white flakes blow back from car wheels,
petals drift over fields of mustard flowers.
At the market, among eleven eggs in shades of brown,
the first duck egg, pale and perfectly oval, larger than the rest,

an egg that makes you think: duckling. The orange yolk
a medium for organs and feathers, webs of feet, a beak

to crack the shell open from inside. Life
frying in the pan, while outside, trees in their designer gowns

perfect and disposable,
the party, once again, just begun.