forsythia —

too early to be out

too late to go back

at day’s end

still talking about

this morning’s birds

honoring blisters

as well as my shoes and feet —

walking with Buddha

drowsy afternoon

flowers long since gone to seed

our heads nodding too

longing to ask her

I ask the fiddleheads for

tips on how it’s done

warm spell —

we offer to carry in

our neighbor’s groceries

garden playing dead —

the patience spring requires

not in my nature

two bucks bedded down

in piles of last year’s leaves —

all eyes and antlers

falling snow —

even the woodpecker’s day

fills up with quiet

we tell our story

to remember more of it —

vines before flowers