It is May.
The fern is green and soft,
and the willow reaches out,
eager to touch the ground.
I scoop up the earth
and crumble it between
two gloved hands.
It smells of the ages -
dark, rich, and warm.
There will be geraniums
along this path,
as well as lavender
and sage.
They will breathe
beneath the sun and the moon
and entertain fireflies at dusk.
And when the fern is tired and dry
and the willow wanes
against a cold November wind,
I will pause along this path
and remember May.