In March the
tulips and the daffodils are
fragile little colored bells, so you
must bend your knees down to the dirt
to listen closely when they ring because
their papery petals only sing in voices
soft and light
as blossoms falling.
You hear so
little when you stand above them
looking down, though from your great height
you love the flaxen yellow and the white and
the sight of the green blades that burrow up
through mounds of sodden leaves that
look like sheaves
of rusted metal.
Bend down then
and listen. Crawl up close and simply listen.
In April when the bells have shrunken into little
fists, and petals tumble on the ground like your
lover’s dress and stockings strewn around the bedroom
floor, you might hear the rustle of November
leaves and songs
of snowflakes falling.
© 2004 J.M. Keating