spring smells

s applauds my bike-riding to the garage, to pick up my car
after he has spent the afternoon
inspecting the new
abnormally loud
sound
coming from the area under the trunk that I know to be the location of
the muffler,
now he shouts to me as I pull into the garage on my bike, so good to see people biking! he shouts because of his old ears

I shout back yes!

I say that especially this time of year its extra special to bike because I get to experience all of the spring smells

never thought of that he says loudly

I am thinking of the way here:
the lilac
and the apple
and the ornamental cherry
and the magnolia
and the indian restaurant
and the pinks
and the reds,
and the recent rain on pavement
and someone grilling in their backyard
and then that moment of old garbage
on the corner of Hawley and route 9

to unfold right now

on the way home from the forest on sunday, so many spring ephemerals!! , driving past all of the blooming shrubs and trees on the sides of the road we start shouting out-loud from the point of view of Spring

be your best self, bloom! lots of colors! shine! give it all you got! go go go!

as if your life depends on it! all at once! no holding back! get out there! be brilliant! all the colors! all the time! go go !

we are laughing in between shouting because its all true, because there’s a lot to do – homework, farm work, school work, because of all of the other tangled up feelings, because of heartache because it is the time of unfolding but what if I don’t want to unfold right now

morning frozen

mud season m says when I tell him how three of us had to push the truck out of a rut in the garden, and that’s what all the mud splatter is on my jeans mud season when i get out early the next morning because the ground is still morning frozen to drive the van out back to unload the logs mud season when I notice the drag of mud from my boot into the elementary school hallway guilty after taking my lunch break walking around outside without a coat, or even a hat, mud season because 50 degrees feels like 75, and I can hear the red winged blackbirds purr growl trill their song from the clump of elms and oaks at the edge of the river.

from up to a mile away

I check up on the cocoon of a cecropia moth that I taped to a stick, propped inside a mesh wire box on my counter,

due date may 21s I wrote on the side of the box in black sharpie, just so that everyone would know when we were expecting.

cecropia moths Hyalophora cecropia , named for Cecrops, king of Attica, are the largest moth native to north America, with wingspans of six inches or more. Their cocoons are large, brown and leathery looking with a golden shiny hue if you catch it in a certain light. c says that the moth will emerge from the top of the cocoon. I am waiting.

cecropia moths don’t have working mouth parts or a digestive system. they live for about 2 weeks. they mate and lay eggs. from photographs i can tell the female from the male by the differences in their antennae. the male moth has bigger broader antennae. they are so sensitive to the scent of the female moth that they can sense her pheromones from up to a mile away.

post storm light            

sitting in my parked car next to the cemetery taking in the post-storm light
noticing

that I already have a watch tan

that it smells like may, if may smells like flowers

that if I look closely at the trees, they are all in fact swaying, some more aggressively than others

that the colors of the trees are as different from each other now as they will be in october,

and that I noticed that same thing last spring.

enough room to breath

when we free the garlic from the too-dense matt of winter mulch so it has enough room to breathe
spring air and extend its fingers and toes, and so do I now, both of us me and garlic sticking out our noses just a little bit farther to smell
spring

walking home sloshing through puddles in dark green boots, seeing shades of light green dark green middle green poking out from all of the corners of the street and sidewalk and a pink child’s sunhat laying in the middle of the road
getting rained on.

the pink halo that I see from far away around a tree, and come to find is actually hundreds, thousands? of red flower buds blooming
on the maple

and it doesn’t mean they’re dying

the way that the drops of rain cling to
white pine needles hanging
down like chandeliers
in the almost dusk

i light a small nub of palo santo holy wood that ive carried in this coat pocket for almost two years, (since buying it on a street corner in ecuador)
for occasions like this: wet and dripping and 40 degrees
when the changing of the seasons means there’s something to shed
whether its grief or a sloughing off of dead skin, the way that the ash trees slough off their outer bark as they get older and it doesn’t mean they’re dying

(even though they are dying) (from other things)

i watch the way the (holy) wood burns and the smoke swirls and I listen to the rain land on (holy) wood and ground

underneath all of the plates

it is sunday and k takes out the taps
from the maple trees in our backyard and the one down at m’s house,
and brings all of the stuff inside for me to find later
in the dish drying rack, underneath all of the plates, rinsed of tree sap and
ready for storing again, marking the end
of something.

I learn that when an exoskeleton of a tarantula breaks, they (who’s they?) fix it
with super glue.

t tells us about the success of thursday night, the first rain just barely over 40 degrees, when more than 300 salamanders cross Henry Street, migrating from their winter homes to the vernal pools for the spring.

I host more than 20 people and 2 babies in my living room, and we all sit close together on cushions on the floor around low tables that we arranged in afternoon with ornate red and purple tablecloths and lots of small handmade bowls of ceremonial foods, for the holiday of Passover when we laugh and eat and remember to sing.

 

puzzle together

when i find the leaf that might be birch that is two shades of brown divided down the central stem with an arch of diamonds cut into it as if it were a paper-cut snowflake i made when i was seven,
and i hold it up to my eye to peer through the holes
and see the moon waxing
three quarters full
rising between
the black locust branches

when i place the leaf on the kitchen counter and ro picks it up and examines it for a while, says I got it! and puts the puzzle together

how the caterpillar – bug – insect – must have gnawed its way through the leaf while it was still all curled up and small in the spring, and then the leaf grew
and changed color
and died
so months later
i find it on the path
looking like
art
for me to look through to the moon