SPRING

No shadows here, only mud.

Praise the caked-up trowel, hand rake,

and grass scissor. I want to kiss each crumble

of sunbaked earth as my sons welcome iris

and drunk ants whirl-rush over each juicy peony bud.

After warm rains come the spring peepers shivering

out of the mud and sitting half in, half out of a puddle.

You must know the bees have come early

this year too: I see them visit aster, sweet Williams,

bleeding hearts, and azalea blossoms hardy enough

to not have crisped with the last late frost. Whatever light

bees give off after the last snow, I hold up to you now.

I cannot explain the click-step of beetles.

You are on your own for that. I grew up with patience

for soil and stars. Lace and pyrite. I believe

in an underworld littered with gems.

In another life, I have to. Sometimes I lose track

of all the bees and their singing.

You thought I said stinging.

— AN

Maybe you’re right: let us stop explaining.

I know those ants too — soon

they’ll slurp caves into the handful of apples

that come on the pipsqueak tree out back,

or scurry dizzy on the sugar

glazing the sweetest bean I’ve ever tasted,

the beans themselves tonguing

through the spent cherry bush.

Terrified as I am — and I am —

the bumblebees furrow the pursed

and purple lips of false indigo

for the dusty blush

and I want to go make a hallelujah

of my own simple body. Not to mention

the cup plants just coming up out back

can hold mouthfuls of wet

despite the months-long drought.

All is never lost.

Some of what remains

of my father swims amidst the breathing

roots of the plum tree. You could almost

see him look out from the leaves’ stomata

in spring, or his fingerprints pressed into

the delicate whorls of the young bark.

And when the tree makes its first

fruit next year, or the next,

it won’t only be in dreams

he’s back. I think I too will be

so lucky some day. Some day,

I think, so too will you be.

— RG

--from Letters from Two Gardens, Ross Gay and Join Aimee