First the redbuds, then the dogwoods
They come, in that order, marching
into our lives, heralding
They flower together only in our minds.
They flower one by one,
in the slow progression of time.
None see the others in their prime.
The dogwood’s bloom dusts the ground
that the iris dances upon.
Time and time and time
We mark it by the flowers.
We know when is when by our eyes
and not by the calendar.
Soon the twilight will be lit up by fireflies.
A different kind of bloom,
but still a marking of time.
You are here, now, they say.
Soon there will be another delight, they say.
It won’t last, but that is part
of the beauty.