I have fallen in love with my yard again.
In May the bravery and power of the plants
put me to shame, dare me to defy their pull.
Jacks in the Pulpit poke up furled spears,
Iris, their lances. Fierce ferns defend the oaks
while hosta hurls earthward curled like cabbage.

The woodchucks busy with babies,
beetles basking in cloistered cocoons,
mosquitoes marinating plans for mad assault
crab grass sulking under fine flames of fancy greens
clear the way for victory, vanquishing
late winter cobwebs, crusted over courage.

They assemble: lilac, azalea, lilies and rose.
peonies prod, plum purple stands guard.
Overhead the green shield thickens at the watch.
Walnut, maple, birch return, comrades to the pines.
Troops triple, recruits respond to rank, while
Grass uncut gathers urgency, gulping growth.

If I miss a single day of intrepid inspection,
the riot of rising leaves, the resurrection
of blessing and arching bows of Bleeding Heart
have marched miles. Quince aims its reckless reds,
rhodies thunder through ridiculous mauve,
and I am shot through with heaven's hope,
captive in my own garden.

Pam Austin Bourgeois
February 12, 2008

© 2008

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Revised 5/22/2008