The jasmine ...
fills the air with scent.
The garden outside is warm.
Leaf shadowed shade.
Red cardinals call chip chip.
Blue jays add their bugled notes.
Mockingbirds race to feed their nested young.
Butterfly wings color the air.
Nothing is pressing right now.
I will go and sit outside.
Cherish now the temporal glories of spring.
Arms and legs glisten with Deep Woods Off.
Mosquitoes rejoice in Springtime too.
When Man fell from grace there was consequence: Sweat soaked brow and weeds.
Mosquitoes upon the forehead too?
(Did you know Houston has 55 varieties of them? And that they bite both day and night?)
I surrender. Wheel out my bike, determined to enjoy the fragrant air.
Outside the leafy shade the sun is hot...too hot.
85 degrees, and the day is yet young.
The twin terrors of Texas envelope me.
I pluck a gardenia.
Drape honeysuckle vines within the shallow vase.
Lemony magnolia scent brightens the room encased by windows shut tight against the heat.
Safe from the heat, trapped within glass, severed, they wither with each passing day.
I (like them) now safe as well,
am also trapped indoors.
Air conditioned air (thrumming like artificial pulse) will serve to keep me
as I steel myself for summer.
This is but the first month of spring.
I mourn; the season is gone.
There will be eight summer months
(April is National Poetry Month. The writing above is my contribution to the event. )