What I Learned From Spring

 

 Let me be forsythia

 by Leslee Clapp

Let me be forsythia

around an old foundation the land has forgotten---

white clapboard house, red barn, kitchen garden

Rhode Island Reds, Holsteins, Clydesdales and China hogs.

Yet forsythia

planted in 1910 by starry-eyed newly weds

beside their new house on a just-born dairy farm

still riots into gold every year.

Let me be that bane of gardeners

called Snow-On-The-Mountain,

variegated or jade green that burrower

who tunnels under rich soil or poor

to thrust from the ground at every bare spot

walk way or driveway, sun or shade

any fallow speck,

planted by those young dreamers when the last century was new.

As Snow-On-The-Mountain

I can’t be eradicated by Captan or

Imidan or any other form of DDT

or something more socially acceptable

because I divide to conquer

and ride the weeding hoe on to the vegetable patch.

Let me be bee balm

 or lemon balm

or mint.

Pacasandra,

creeping myrtle,

vinca,

morning glory,

I will thrive in the dust

of those who planted

never caring who sees my, red or white

or purple or yellow blooms.