Air scented thickly from many spring flowers.
Heat inversion and fog and warming skin.
A morning so heavy that the peonies
can’t lift themselves to greet the sun.
I sit shaded, writing it all down.
The pussy willow showed its furry catkins
early during a warm February week and
are now covered with heavy March snow.
We want to be optimistic. The universe
sometimes agrees – and sometimes laughs at us.
April: wild Jack was in his pulpit,
wrapped in a leafy hood and hidden
from our view, preaching a foul sermon
that attracted only pollinating flies to him.
September: transformed into too-early poisonous Christmas ornament.
A snowy border to this August field.
My morning walk at late summer pace.
A queen’s lace or a common weed,
a wild carrot – a matter of perspective –
A clear horizon, lacy blue and white.
What is it that you will plant
when the season ends? Life is bare,
and you want to protect what remains
from eroding, in the vernal hope that
this blanket will allow a new season.