A sunny April day in late January.
A warming strong wind the past days
erased the remaining snow, dried the ground.
I took tea outside and read new poems.
Buds watching me chuckled over my joy.
that clings to the branch tightly closed,
layered in fine colors for the Spring –
unashamed she will show Her yellow petticoats
to me and dances with the wind.
Perfume upon me from an immodest touch.
A hot, humid, summer in spring day.
The peonies drop their heads like us,
but theirs are heavy with peak blooms
and we are still hoping for buds,
new growth, a cooling rain, night rest.
The pitchfork goes deep to the hilt
and upturns soil, first weeds and worms.
Working in compost and turning it again,
clods to be dissolved by tomorrow’s rain.
Seed and seedling, hopeful for the season.
watching a hawk descending, We old men
have no regrets. Everything dies in spring
or another season. Lovers and stars part.
Brief seasons are long enough for us
to plant, grow, harvest. Petals like snowfall.