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.