April 14, 2018
When nights drift through open windows
and you wake to mornings enveloped in green,
the world is a nursery with you again
the grass-stained boy hopping rocks
by a slow creek that winds through
the idylls of childhood. Or the lithe girl
in scruffy jeans clutching a rough trunk
halfway up the side yard plum
which thrives on the edge of an unruly lawn.
The aroma of onion grass spikes the air
as you weave a bouquet of dandelions
and skip to a medley of mockingbird tunes.
You wander once more through living woods
where tangles of jessamine hang from the trees
and armies of iris encircle the ponds.
You gaze in wonder at street-side weeds
where scattered arcs of Dove’s-foot flowers
make lavender galaxies tangled in green.
And you rest again on a carpet of clover
woven with tendrils of purple vetch
in the spell of a flowering dogwood.
You are the boy now covered in mud,
the girl with a jessamine necklace.
You slip through the windows of spring.
