April is an Impossible Remembering.
Winter left us with only imagination, photos of gardens long gone,
We can’t believe it was so green, so lush, so tall,
where a mat of dried brown now lies dead…
Yet here it is,
Life again, defying our imaginations in displays so incredible we almost can’t believe them either…
Brave stems of bulbs sliding surely upward, blooming bright wax freckles on a deceased landscape, wafting hyacinth perfume, luscious—we instinctively change course
like dogs on a scent to stalk the source,
Squawking packs of squabbling birds wake, and the trees!
Oh, the trees…
Wide roots with modest trunks who’ll bear the weight of summer’s sweet bounty…
April comes and the Miracle Earth summons forth impossibly delicate flower petals from rough, bare branches slept the winter through,
A raw, erotic vulnerability,
feminine, garish, tearing, fragile on harsh wood not yet softened by leaves,
fingers of sex organs popping,
splayed out for the bees’ taking,
Pure, fragile sex scraping hard twigs,
fleeting, turned to mush by frost.