Spring Fever

Sun-touched I sit on a
frail box beside the garden
tools waiting for the noon
whistle.

All around me spring sweats
in labor, I hear roots push
in deep tunnels, stir in a
bird’s egg, smell dew on a
thrust of buds, feel thorns
of a climbing rose.

How many springs lie piled in
the cellar of my mind, in baskets
of unplanted bulbs, dried seeds,
a litter of odds and ends of
withered trials? Now spring shines
again from green wisteria vines.

Sun-touched I sprawl, in slow motion
on honeysuckle clouds, deaf to the
growl of accusing bees.