Too soon, too hot —
where addled Winter lingered,
imperious Summer now intrudes.
One rainy April day, or two —
a month that should run
with thawed soil,
dewy damp for all that awakens
thirsty after a season’s rest.
To the south, the earth drowns;
here, drawing the trowel to transplant
clutches of Forget-Me-Nots,
I release gasps of dust.
Fret not —
the Reservoir is full,
the little creeks run;
but I am no Aesopian Grasshopper,
able to fiddle away my cares,
nor that Fable-ist’s industrious ants.
My worries wake me
in the too-warm night to run,
fleet as deer,
through a dry wood,
star-shod hooves raising ribbons
of skeletal leaves
to mark their passage.
–C.Birde, 4/16

“Moonlit Wood” — C.Birde, 4/16