Here in dry California spring,
bejeweled by hothouse flowers,
colors as random as a pastel paint box
I cannot find white
The Santa Ana wind strips the palms' dead fronds,
leaving a woman's legs with little dignity

My arid throat coughs a cackle, black as crows'
that used to peck my lush Long Island lawn
Shining feathers drop like dark spears
where white was once the snow
Hot wind tears live oak's branches limb from limb
dressing me in tattered shreds as they fall