The variegated hosta is in full swirl now,
the sight of it transporting me
back to my early childhood days
when I’d stretch out my arms,
toss back my head and spin until I fell down,
the green of the trees swirling still,
until it all finally came to rest.
For timeless hours, I would lay in the cool grass,
breathing its perfume, watching the leaves
of the cottonwoods, poplars, maples and oaks
sway in the breeze from the bay, while above them
white gulls soared, their calls cascading down
through the canopy of May’s luscious greens.
Now, at my feet, hosta plants unfold fat leaves
beneath the lilac blossoms as damsel flies play.
Everywhere, green abounds in countless forms,
each one a masterpiece and perfectly placed.
Above me noisy crows fly in the deep blue sky.
All of this, so swiftly come, the fulfillment
of a promise. And now, so swiftly passing.
