This is the spring the list gets done,
the spring I carve fat clumps of sweet woodruff
from where the Buddha smiles beneath the bonsai juniper
to patch the bare spots on the pets’ graves.
This is the spring I prune back the grapes severely,
and the lilacs, and the forsythia, and the purple smoke bush.
This is the spring the trout kiss my blue feet
as I plant the yellow iris in the pond’s cold shallows.
This is the spring I feed the azaleas, clean the birdhouses,
turn the garden paths gold with new straw.
This is the spring I stop chasing love as if it were my tail,
the spring I stand on my head each morning
and spell love backwards, and add a v, and add an e.
The cataract on the sun could then fall away like a sepal.
I could become so light butterflies flutter through me.
I could put on my wedding shoes
and smile for the mirror like a new father.
I could take the first trail and not look back,
spread my arms out like a crane and grow small.
I could grow small and disappear singing.
Kent Monroe lives with a delightful gang of cats and dogs in Troy, New Hampshire. He prefers to garden and write, but also works here and there to feed the gang. His words have appeared in Virginia Quarterly Review, New England Review, and The Write Room.