Because it seems that cold weather
might finally be done with us,

because spring is springing with
its always surprising abandon,

tossing frilly blooms around like
so many enthusiastic pom-poms,

I decide that the plants that have
sheltered all winter on the front porch

can move to the sunny backyard
deck. And so the moving begins—

first lugging down the driveway
the tall, leggy ficus that a long-ago

editor gave me when I succeeded
her in the job, then the smaller ficus

that was ailing when I brought
it home, its adoring person near

the end of her life. Then the round
container of succulents, some

a soft, sagey green, some darker
and spiky. And the hydrangea

that the sun roasted has popped
back, so I will find it a shady spot—

trickier now with the old sycamore
pruned and some volunteers

in the urban jungle making an exit.
I move pot after pot as the cats sit

and watch, just out of the way
but interested in the process.

And when I’m done, Diego jumps
up next to a heart-shaped terra cotta

planter of last year’s stragglers into
which I will plant new annuals.

Johnny Jump-ups, I think, little
grinning violas in yellow and purple,

as well as others that catch the eye
of this give-it-a-try gardener—

still not very savvy after many years
but delighted by what shows up,

regrows and flourishes, with so
very little help from me.