The tulips come up first, before they are sure it is safe.
Three of them, standing very close together.
Then the forget-me-nots, low down where you have to kneel.
They are named after a promise.
The blossom brings the birds, and the birds bring the noise,
and for two weeks the garden is far too busy.
Summer. One flower gets taller than all the others
and is extremely pleased about it.
The lavender goes over and the whole garden smells of it
long after you have gone inside.
By the end of the warm months the fruit has come on the branch,
heavy enough now to bend it.
Autumn is the pomegranate: shut all year, then suddenly not.
Everything it was saving, all at once.
The leaves come off one at a time, like a slow undressing.
Somebody hangs them up to keep.
Then frost, and the firs, and nothing to do but wait.
Under the ground, the tulips are already thinking about it.