Postcard From The Garden
Snowdrops have been blooming this week, ever so taller everyday.
They make me catch my breath. Everytime. They break my heart. Everytime. They make me smile. Everytime.
Morning quivers in the thorns; above the budded snowdrops
caked with dew like little virgins, the azalea bush
ejects its first leaves, and it is spring again.
The willow waits its turn, the coast
is coated with a faint green fuzz, anticipating
mold. Only I
do not collaborate, having
flowered earlier. I am no longer young. What
of it? Summer approaches, and the long
decaying days of autumn when I shall begin
the great poems of my middle period.