Archive for April 24th, 2016

Blooms and bird calls.

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.

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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.

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Surge.

Here and there, the business of spring getting done.

New arbor for the remote rose,

replacing the rotting and crumbled wooden slats
with a mosaic firefly top.

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The glassy glint from the gravel under foot,
was a thumb-sized hunk of mica
that sheared into a hundred pieces at a touch.

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The older bloom of the kitchen amaryllis.

The new bloom.

Little violets in the grass, in patches here and there.

The queen of weeds, ruling a million sister blooms.

Plum gnarly.

Several human spirits are trapped under the bark,
rather lumpy spirits.

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Eats, shoots, and leaves.

It was a hard freeze, down to 26°F,
but just for a few hours.
A little damage, that could have been much worse.

Crab apple blooms burned, but not blasted,
abuzz today with pollinators.

Pansies in the pot, okay.

Oxeyes, or hawksbeard, is everywhere.

Swampwort, singular.

Swampwort, plural.

Early rising mayapple,
first of the millions to come.

Herb garden just after takeoff,
landing gear tucked up, and ready for the long flight.

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Peat pellet hatchlings.

Hostas strangely enthusiastic,
as if they knew — something.

Camera killing azalea blossoms one week from full flower
also survived the freeze.

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Cluster of pear blossoms, likewise unperturbed.

Up the orchard, all the relics that remain,

some in flower first, some in leaf first,
all accept the swell of spring.

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