Last night it rained, leaving

white blossom shreds clinging to dogwood leaves, blown green in an instant.

Sodden confetti clots choke gutters and grass —

the pink and white remnants of an azalea bacchanalia.

The fringe tree shivers in the cold dawn, 

tender bits dangling naked in the breeze.

Yesterday, brazen. Today, sore ashamed.

Spring has sprung and is already speeding by.

Time flies.

And so do the wasps, building paper condominiums in the downspouts, 

and the birds canoodling in the newly upholstered trees.

And the clouds skirting the sky in vanishing wisps.

Time leaps, like the squirrel getting his nut in the damp underbrush, 

or the froggie gone a courtin’ in the mud.

It sneaks like the snake shifting weight through the sod

One blink – or not, snakes don’t blink — then it’s gone.

One minute intact

Like the five pale shell casings 

In their spun-twig armory in the clutch of the sapling

just waiting to explode 

or turn from a sky blown blue as rhinestones, to a broiling gunmetal grey

The woods, dappled green as moss, spike fevers soon, destined to fall. 

Life is ever-eager, ever-ready, ever-thrusting, 

Till its not

All things

New and raw, soon fecund and fat, all grow, sting, decay and drop

But words the poets know remain

Words, the poets know, retain 

the birdsong, the blue stone, the echoes of youth and the splashing rain,

the paper houses and paper dreams,

in still-lifes — so there’s still life

Long after it’s all blown away