Near the middle of April, the south slope
begins to don its green, all gossamer,
as if the hue were floating above the soil.
In the morning light, it’s intense and glittering,
as if cut emeralds were scattered across the land.
But around noon, when the sun is white and high
and the shadows of the trees run straight downhill,
ten thousand spring beauties steal the scene,
their tiny star petals sparkling in the light,
and I, turning to see them, give thanks
that they and I are here, at this brief moment
in time, in mid-April, when birds sing in the woods,
and the world wears a certain light.