making hay

the glory of spring

throughout March, and into April,

the nights flirt with freezing,

and the days hold back from an enthusiasm of heat,

so plants hesitate to come forth,

no stalk of asparagus is yet up in the garden,

in the last week, though, heat returns,

eighties and sun seem to snap their fingers

and the trees take off from sharp lines to fulling leaves,





distance blocked by green factories

ready to make their own hay,

usually, dogwood blossoms wait to follow the leafing,

this year they both crowd to the front of the line,



at the same time my cherry trees

erupt like great white torches

which draw tiger swallowtail butterflies to them,

pairs of butterflies circle each other

and spiral up and down like double helixes,

this spring is noisy with birds

who love the food plentifully provided

and tend their eggs which each hope to be predator, 

and not prey,

pine and oak pollen coats everything,

turns rain puddles yellow,









and annoys many into allergy,

we humans don’t stop when it’s dark outside:

we work into the night,

we humans don’t stop in winter

and we can exhaust ourselves by spring,

plants and insects, birds and grazers, thrive now,

we humans need summer and fall to fill our bodies,

though our spirit fills with the glory of spring.

by Henry H. Walker

April 12, ’13