Sep 2
In summer, everyday, all around the house,
in pots, in beds,
on bushes, climbing trellises,
color explodes.
Full sun,
part shade,
all shade,
the white and yellow
and orange blooms
grab human eyes
and pull in pollinators.
Deep red
and rose
and lavender
explode
then slowly fade.
Pale blue
soft lavender,
down,
darker, to deep violet.
No blessing comes to us
as charmed
as a partner who brings forth flowers.
Jun 19
walkabout, this afternoon, to find deep red with busy bee,
pale red with kanji characters,
poppy world full of self,
rising from a bed thought lost,
while yellow bush roses,
and blue fingers, which our maidens know by a grosser name,
showing some purple shared, in the same pot
or shared with satiny iridescence
shimmering around a black hole,
in purple waves
and glitter,
while at rows end, marigold companions
and almost a blooming leaf, twinning stacks climb orthogonally towards sun
and a tannish leaf kind of flowerish
all of which have names that are common
and the uncommon names are all scientific
May 8
Clematis clings and climbs up its arbor
clutching at the chimlee.
Almost … 
… and all the way open.
Azealia bumper bloom this year, in red.
so red,
and pink,
and whatever color this is
from the new bush down the lawn.
Calycanthus has too many common names:
carolina allspice, strawberry-bush,
sweet bubby, sweet betsy, and spicebush.
Money plant is one common name for a dozen little bushes,
mostly succulents,
that produce some sort of coin shape from the flowers.
This version makes translucent papery discs
later in the summer.
Now it’s purely purple blooms.
Cucumber magnolia flowers,
ten feet to sixty up the tree,
the first bloom are big enough for salad.
Another month, big enough to make a dinner plate.
A new-sprouted dahlia, beginning the long climb
up the flower cage.
Comfrey accidentally thriving in its own
little village of native weeds.
A lovely composition to which our contribution
was the not cutting down.
Mar 9
Half the year we have leaves,
in Western North Carolina,
half the year we do not.
We’ve just about finished with the not part.
A week ago there was a chill hold.
Trees of wood, trees of shadow.
Projection on the ground, not real at all,
except everyday it’s closer to blooming.
Along Church Street, south-east forty miles, in Asheville,
an espalade of tree tops in perfect conic sections.
There are no leaves yet.
But the tip of every branch trembles
ready in silver or in gold.
Bloom, any minute now.
Any second.
Even the ever-cautions hornbeam is at the edge.
A few more minutes of sunlight in a day,
warmer by two or three degrees,
not just one trigger is cocked.
The whole hillside. Ready at the tips.
Doesn’t matter if you are ready.
