The weather's unpredictable.
Last month a random blizzard ambushed the crocus,
our advanced scouts.
Now, across the lawn,
old bulbs send up a thin line of green conscripts.
Their timing's off, but what the hell-
Spring can afford to squander numbers in the drive toward summer.
Her supply lines are endless.
"How crude," you say, "to compare this voiceless birthing to war."
But look, there beside your foot,
an engorged tip of peony, our garden's heavy artillery,
will burst in showy pyrotechnics come July's voluptuous triumph
when you will stretch in moist sweet sun,
lie in fragrant excess of cut grass,
of American Beauties,
of Peace roses draped along the fence
like commemorative bunting on some Independence Day bandstand.
You'll doze while
I reconnoiter the perimeters of our lot,
restless for what's to come.