Forsythia
May, 2005
Driving by that first vernal forsythia,
I know I should be on foot for the full rush of this much gold.
Blazing like the fiery peak of love’s first impression,
It shines saffron against a western periwinkle springtime
sky.
I regret having none of my own, and vow to set one in before
the planting season ends in summer’s inferno blast.
But on the way out and back I am busy, and I remember, too,
the quiet green that takes over in two weeks’ time, sooner if we get those
winds ―warm Chinook or frigid Sirocco,
Or a hold-over winter storm prematurely tumbles these
luscious petals that cannot bear the wet weight of inhospitable snow.
I recall, as well, the comfortable quiet unremarkable
verdure that lasts all summer
And into autumn,
Like love worn dull with the passage of too much time and
too many quarrels.
And I decide, once again, to pass them up and wait instead
for awesome clusters of the purest yellow to surprise me with their intense
glory as I ride past my neighbor’s homestead, come next April.
