We would have cut it back by now
dead fennel in a bed of joe-pye

it is not the bloom
but beauty as it decomposes
dark twisting lines of sky and cloud
bring us all closer to the month’s end
welcoming mothers with an apostrophe
snow flies in April amongst magnolias
we wait dormant indoors
Cicadas in late summer
wring whispers from trees
lawns stretch ready around
small bodies caught in orbit
each afternoon contains a pause
waiting for the pulse to break
limbs to stir something uproot
blankets buried winced secrets
sunk beneath the wood floor
creaks elicit more than simple
organza wrapped complacence
Warm rays skip across the drive
another sun-filled day for our tally
begun mid-winter in depths of cold
and other sorrows long spent
the final moths of our internment
but now it is spring truly

damp soft waves
blossom blue dixie cups on lawns
pop out each corner imagining
they flow from the barely joined sky
Properly formed expansion
clears out the motherland
light turns the sky full of trees
golden brown collusion of mass
stillness of creaking limbs needles
and I wonder what next
transparent space rises
teleology remains silent