There are no more pine needles
to gather from the wooded forest floor.
The thick compost rug is now dampened
in April showers and dew.
May petals blossom from sleepyhead plants in bed;
the season is upon us for these sorts of things.
It is a season like any season — full of its own agenda —
For who would wear a winters’ coat to pick a summer melon?
Or expect the leaves to wear golden orange in the middle of May?
This is the season we dwell in, with beauty all its own.
I embrace it, delight in it, for tomorrow it will pass.
There’s time yet to sled down a hill
or write a book
or wake up in Paris,
But for now, hurry, to the front porch we go —
Smell the sweet air that greets your nose,
The Gardenias are blooming.