Easter is late this year,
But today I wore brand new cream-colored sandals,
My toenails painted lavender,
Because the dogwood blossoms are streaked with Blood,
And the yellow clouds of pollen swirl like tornadoes.

I saw a magnificent snowball bush,
And I have no idea what its scientific name is
Nor do I care, as I am no botanist,
No specialist in planting much of anything,
Although I try.
I gardened last week as if I were a master,
And now the seeds and flowers
That I planted too early
Will shrivel in a late frost in April
That almost always comes, says the weatherman.

But I see the way the world works,
The cutting down of everything that grows.
Time is short.
Nothing lasts for long.
The only thing that remains
Is the tiny seed of infinity
Planted in our hearts
By the Botanist.

We need the fresh things:
To feed us,
To water us,
To break us,
To grow us,
Fertile ground and little seeds that we are,
The all-in-one wildflower package
That only needs a little tending
And perfect timing
To bloom.