Mid-spring comes to small town South
when Chinaberry bursts in purplish hues
beside abandoned homesteads.
Honeysuckle scents the soft air
and wisteria drapes weary trees
with a heavy lavender shroud.
Weeks break in fragrant waves.
Fields that featured buttercup
streak yellow ragwort now.
Time keeps the spring flowers
from blooming all at once.
Time keeps our ghosts apart.
These are the days of white clover
when raucous bands of dandelion
stalk the slopes of suburban lawns.
This is the time the tanager returns
flitting red through high branches
amidst a hundred shades of green.
This is the season of tender leaves
when cool winds sift the canopy
with a soothing woodland sigh.
The world teems with calls and songs,
lilts and chortles, wheets and teeters,
chucks, clucks, caws and cheers.
Now is the time of new life. Why
should I keep from singing?
