A carpet of Celandines.
Yellow snow sprinkling the green.
Even I am made happy by this.
After the drabness of winter
A sudden rush of colour.
My eyes hurt in the sun.
Celandines are the tear drops of Angels
Spilled on the ground on Good Friday.
This morning a ghost from last summer,
The frail dried husk of a flower,
Was blown into my porch.
I snatched it up from the concrete,
This emblem of hopes and anxieties
Recollected, but no longer real.
I spent much of last year in the garden,
Astonished by the glamour of blossoms,
Wild roses as large as my hand.
Yet these delicate miniature Celandines,
No bigger than April snow flakes,
Dazzle my eyes this morning.
Spring flowers have the frailness of children,
We love them but can easily hurt them
In a moment of thoughtlessness.
But the Hydrangea, from which this husk fell,
Is a brute of a midsummer plant
That spreads over the path to my door.
Every June it spreads out of control,
But the blooms are just wonderful.
Celandines are small and ephemeral.
Mid April they melt in the sun.
Trevor John Karsavin Potter.
March 28th. - 29th. - April 5th. - 12th. - 14th. 2021.
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