Too soon, too hot —

where addled Winter lingered,

imperious Summer now intrudes.

One rainy April day, or two —

a month that should run

with thawed soil,

dewy damp for all that awakens

thirsty after a season’s rest.

To the south, the earth drowns;

here, drawing the trowel to transplant

clutches of Forget-Me-Nots,

I release gasps of dust.

Fret not —

the Reservoir is full,

the little creeks run;

but I am no Aesopian Grasshopper,

able to fiddle away my cares,

nor that Fable-ist’s industrious ants.

My worries wake me

in the too-warm night to run,

fleet as deer,

through a dry wood,

star-shod hooves raising ribbons

of skeletal leaves

to mark their passage.

–C.Birde, 4/16