The first notes of spring, white snowdrops;
And then flowers the redbud tree
In contrast, to sound the themes to come.
Rhubarb, in Tibet, thought to be small
Red-bodied wrinkled Adams, play with
Rembrandt embouchure, the first tulips.
The hall is columned with black locust,
Wild cherry, autumn blaze, witch hazel,
Muscle-wood, oak, Norway spruce; the colors
Echo sweetly off those wooden pillars, their
Leafy vault; annuals play like string sections
Constant but anonymous from spring to frost.
One follows another: large bows of hosta strike,
Cello notes. With wind-time nods the bass
Peony; and piccolo alyssum, tiny among rocks,
Drowned by the trumpets of turk’s cap lilies,
The middle movement; followed by the third:
Where chrysanthemum and asters bloom.
We are its concert masters, we orchestrate this,
Where colors and scents and themes flower,
Each blossom is first chair; with cadenzas of peppers
And tomatoes that feed us–music, the food of love!
Ripening, first, to middle movement: then the finale!
As the Conductor batons the last downbeat of fall.