in April, as drops from the sky,
as roots in the loam, as cloud,
as marsh ferns’ lacy arrows,
open greenly  

unfold in July with the cranberry
hibiscus bowl-petals singing
with sweeping tongue, yellow-

uncurl in October, like coneflower
fingers, like oak’s hold on its leaves,
like rain-slick pavement

unwind with January’s white hills,
each a still life holding its breath,
holding moles & mice in its
subnivean embrace—  

stretch silently into spring’s sly
verduous wink, its rumpled
fields, its shaggy blossoms,
savor flagrantly