April is confused

With still little flurries
of seed or snow,
the winter months try
to reclaim the land from spring,
to make blossoms barren.
But the rainwater sidewalk
and the lemon dandelions
are discouragement enough.

From the line of mauve bushes
on the hill across the canyon
a boundary is formed
between mountain and grid.
Toxic air crowns
in machinery plumes
(the good old torchsmoke of liberty)
next to the ranches.
And the airborne pollen
that strangely smells of mold
or mushroom
perfumes each mountain desert afternoon.

I'm on that road,
right round the corner.
That same old road;
that lonely creeping canyon road
that still hasn't forgotten.