May first, and frost
stars camouflage the car
window. Back to winter

coat, a child hops
foot to foot, waiting
for the bus. It is late.

Only a half moon
floats in the heavens
which, perhaps, have need

of a seasoned gardener
like my father, crossing
strains of rhodies,

new blooms no one
has seen, not a pond
in the woods harboring

all manner of flowers:
skunk cabbage
already sun themselves

while trilliums
practice their shy
trumpets near curling

fronds of fern.
Today the Senior Center
offers a short film

on earthquakes, coaxing
survival with early
strawberries trucked in

from warmer climes,
recycled cups of hot
chocolate or coffee.

I pass, preferring
the lessons of natural
catastrophes, the quiet

pounding of my heart
on a wide new trail
flanked with cedar,

the deep green
of pine nodding
their fertile dust.