In Days of White Clover

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?