The day is florid beyond all recalling. 
Daffodils have given way to clouds of dogwoods,
but forsythia still blazes, and azaleas—
cerise, salmon, rosy dawn—are saying ah
and showing their throats. 

Wisteria hangs languid and lavender among sweetgums,
and yellow pollen dusts the ivy’s bottle green,
piles, puddles on the sidewalk. 

I see I’ve left pale footprints on the floor of my empty house,
tracked part of this fecundity indoors. 

I turn slowly and stare hard at the dusty marks,
thinking them mockery,
some kind of joke.