After the ground drained the last

meltwater the March I turned seventeen,

periwinkle’s blue pinwheels bloomed

among their thickets of deep green tongues;

redbud petals gleamed with a waxy sheen like taffy.

Overhead, geese honked a raucous

salute to the enlivening erstwhile home

their formation in flight pointed back to.

April crowded the open turf with daffodils

like yellow-tophatted dandies on picnics.

Hummingbirds blurred above them—practicing aerial

acrobatics to sip assiduously through

straw-like bills. Trees of all sorts showered their love:

those papery seed pods that mimic

propeller blades, pollen in bronze nodes on tassels

or powdering the pavement and cars

they canopied a shade brighter than sage.

Honeysuckle proliferated in May—

I’d pluck dozens of succulent

blossoms between lemon and cream, unseal

and unthread them to lick their single drops.

The sweetgum and oak leaves had lobed into

fingers grasping a wish, veined into palms

open to catch whatever treats chance brings;

a robin paid call on a branch of

our big front oak, his song of insouciant freedom

elating: Be of cheer, I am here.

Comments

Robert Levine (author) from Brookline, Massachusetts on May 14, 2018:

Thank you, Dora/

Dora Weithers from The Caribbean on May 12, 2018:

Your poem bears out its title in activity, sounds and colors. It does wake up our senses. Well done.