Hand watering the day before
the vernal equinox, my flip-flopped
toes splattered with hose spray

after months of cold feet encased
in warm socks and wool slippers—
this is how I know it’s spring.

I love that it’s predicted to hit
90 degrees today, as I try to fan
the warmth eastward, hoping

to heat up chilly friends who
can’t yet imagine this. In my front
yard the yellow daisies bounce

like golden retrievers, and though
I’m regretting having the wisteria
pruned so severely in January,

I stand under the driveway trellis,
counting the lavender clusters
(eight!) purpling the baby leaves

greening overhead. It’s all about
the green, the riot of show-offy
colors the flowers have on display.

The older I get, the giddier I get,
as if I’d never watched nature
do what she so capably does—

no matter the sorrows of the world,
so many of them human-inflicted—
sends spring springing our way,

a perfect balance of day and night,
abundant joy in every blossom,
kindness in the flourishing of green,

the promise of growth dripping
on my toes.