Spring overwhelms, reeling from so much at once.
A blurred yellow cartoon appears across the room,
fluffed out double size,
reverts to goldfinch when the preening is done
and I’ve stepped too close.
Behind the dense butt of Mr. Tom,
testing the grass, Lady Claudia Cardinal.
I’m not where they think I am.
Hornbeam fully leafed out, just in time for the hummingbird nests
of the first dozen or sixteen who’ve settled in this week.
Sugar maple seeds shower in astonishing profusion, likewise pinecones.
As every seed is sacred, we must plant them all.
Hawksbeard everywhere, a bumper bloom.
Money plants, in the pre-currency, violet phase.
Azelea not distressed at all by last week’s frost.
17 of the 20 blueberry bushes we planted 40 years ago
still flower and bear fruit.
This year we will implement some simple sharing rules
with the jays and crows and turkeys.
Dogwoods have become scarce, since the blight,
but a few young trees hang on.
Leaves ascending to the ridge.
By next week, an apparent mass of solid green,
but in the hundred shades of spring yellow greens
gradually coalescing into the grayer summer palette
of fewer darker hues.
And that will sign the end of spring.
