Mar 13
The planted bulbs are up,
each clump in turn as ordered by the hours of sunlight.
You can almost see the bee.
The buds at the branch tips
are set to explode,
some into flowers first,
some first into leaves.
Once a peach, this stump’s done,
the trunk become new wood for carving or for fire.
Blessed by a working bee.
Feb 28
The bulbs push shoots up, invisible until they blow apart.
The lichen population is not impressed by spring stirrings.
Boiling, freezing, drought or flood, they’re good, they’re perpetual.
On the shadow side, north facing, the last snow patch lingers.
The branch roars, swollen from the recent rain and the recent snow.
Passing cataracts and icicles,
from the twin springs just below the ridge, down this far,
down to the branch, on to the Mississippi, to the Gulf.
The crocus bulbs have called spring!
The light stripey ones,
delicate and bright,
already sticking to the bee’s knees as she crawls inside
to work, drunk on the golden pollen.
The deep purple clump
And the grandest bloom of all,
serene, imperial,
except for the pollen knocked around her ankles.
Rapture and ravishing.
Somebody’s always got to be first,
no matter the risk,
so comes the crocus.
Another killing frost to come?
Of course.
But, hello, for today.
Leftovers under foot.
Step gently because it is all alive.
Even the rocks, digested by their dressings.
Quartz born in fire, resting on the loam.
Quartz born in fire, washed by the waters.