A few days of daffodils, forsythia

tentatively yellow and then

eighty degrees in March!

The peonies stretch six inches

in two days, the first movement

in a sudden symphony

of color—the blue piccolos

of periwinkle, then the deeper

notes of Formosa azaleas

and saucer magnolias, joined by the green

rhythm of basswoods, all scribbled on scores

of white dogwoods, apricots,

cherries, everything that was programmed

for April. Only the oaks remain

at rest, their long strings open

to the sun, knowing that one good

frost could bring the whole place down.

 

 

Maybe, maybe not we say

just before bedtime as each window darkens

and the last one fills with

Leipzig, Krakow, Vilnius, all

still frozen except for the flowers

of faces suddenly open

to hope, fear, over the blinding

fire of dawn snow.

 

From Commandments at Eleven (Orchises, 1994).
Used with the author's permission.