Accordingly
The spirit of the peony is spring.
The summer finds itself inside a rose.
In May the petals, red and pink, both sing
A colored fugue in fragrant ratios.
The garden wings have gathered. Great tits leap
As through the grandest canyon. Swooped their flight
Is brief but bulged with sunlight. They go steep
With promise to the feeder. They are slight
Yet near eternal in their surety.
They fail not in their tiny offices
From age to age. They keep their purity,
Yes, even in their bickering caucuses
Among the branches springtime gives their claws,
All this in Maytime’s ancient newborn laws.
~ Phillip Whidden