March

The geranium sang on the windowsill
its fuchsia head lifted to the sun
then I heard it speak
in its own geranium tongue
to the violet beside it
who responded with a blush
on its pink-tipped blooms.

The fern sighed listening
as the lark approached the tree
bringing a song from deep in the woods
where spring was lifting the sodden skunk leaves
out of their boggy mire
and March made its first foray
out of the heart of winter.

Summer

The path
the grass
the green
never ended.

Days so long –
the blink of a dove
longer still.

Ah, gentle dreamer
by the tree
sun smoothing
its wrinkled dress
before your eyes.

What was that?
A berry in a bush?
A bird transfixed
by delight?

Afternoon still lingers
by the tree
where you sat
but the bird
it seems
has flown.