After a northwest winter of grays and browns,
Rains and mud, getting by by hanging on,
The sun appears innocently, like a child after a tantrum,
Rises over chilly neighborhoods,
The celebration starts with the cherry blossoms,
Pink and smelling of sandalwood,
Eventually dying in blizzards of pink, drifting in gutters,
Beautifying even in death.
And while they distract us, tulips rise, straight as redwoods,
Towering above tiny lavender bells.
Fiery azaleas explode, jealous of all attention.
Rhododendrons, reptilian buds impatient since January, all jump at once,
Impossible variegated globes.
Each player takes its turn, a great jazz riff, swaying in the breeze like dancers in a club.
Finally, as a quiet coda, a single white rose blooms behind the cemetery.