A clear blue sky, but still a chill,
the last snow patch sublimed,
a day for burning dry tomato vines,
gray-brittle sage, brown hollyhocks
an empty robin’s nest from the bare lilacs.
Children in red sweaters
disdaining rakes,
run crazy eights around the lawn,
find twigs to feed the fire,
amuse the old black Lab.
Smoke stings our eyes,
shifts upward by a trick of wind.
I stir the dark scent of decay.
Tender fiddleheads
uncurl in private (pianissimo).
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