It doesn’t seem to matter how much rain
we get – the trellis doesn’t bloom till Spring
has spent at least a week, till we obtain
the light of April, and the laurels ring
with birdsong dawn and dusk. We’re shaded here –
wisteria waits longer for the drive
to bud, to leaf, to drink this atmosphere
and propagate its tendency to thrive.

It’s always April when the petals bloom,
the amethyst unfurling down the stem.
They’re heralded by lazy flies that zoom
at dusty window panes, and after them
a quantity of bees appear instead,
that buzzing bounce to work above my head.

This entry was posted in Poetry, Weather. Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s