Allegro
I dig weeds, lop off seed heads,
prune wayward branches, chop
(and curse) the redwood
with its endless debris and offspring,
drain grit from sprinkler lines (and later
dig it out from under my nails).
Andante
Ra-nun-cu-las,
a-nem-o-nes,
(lush syllables in my mouth)
intensely imbued petals though shy
above their feathered leaves
(my older son’s first spring).
Periwinkle
roams, exuberant,
starred. California poppies
are wildflowers
but their trust
was hard earned. “Oh!”
She realizes I am crouched
over
here, weeding. “I picked
your iris.” I kiss my butt
to the dirt. “Take more.
Come again.” Bearded irises’
curves and ruffles stupefy me.
Scherzo
Strawberries,
baby’s tears,
gazanias, you may have
your say, but you,
forget-me-nots, believe me,
I won’t forget you—
seedlings already crowd
your feet which is why
I am yanking you
out by the armload but I
do love your blue clouds.
Mexican
primrose:
insouciant dancers,
swirling your skirts,
stomping your boots, clenching roses
in your teeth, while your deceptive
wiry roots greedily creep
through the soil to multiply
your tenacious dancers
like funhouse mirrors.
Finale
In
the shade of a trio of crepe myrtles
that gloriously bloom mid-summer,
club flowers and heart leaves
skim the soil on runners, offspring
of our first home’s violets. If I am
deer still
a scent almost
not there whispers in my nostrils
on the breeze that brings too
foreign conversation of a herd
of bumblebees foraging
in the hollyhocks that nod
in the hot sun.
