You Can Keep Your Tulips

Does everyone have a different way they know it’s spring—
for some, when each corner is spread with daffodil gold,
or cherry blossoms bud scarlet at the tips of twigs,
for some, the first unfurling of a particular tree’s leaves
like the hello, good morning, of a long-known neighbor
or the fierce twitter of robins fighting for the best tree-hollow

all signs you learn when you live somewhere a long time
that mark the coming of warmth, the end of winterime—

but for me, all these familiar trumpets ring hollow,
there’s only one sign I look for around my neighborhood,
flowers so small and green you’d mistake them for leaves
in clusters hanging from still leafless maple twigs—
that smell, half maple syrup, half tobacco, solid gold
is what tells me it is finally finally irrevocably spring.

Books Available
The Day of My First Driving Lesson
Country Well-Known as an Old Nightmare's Stable
High-Voltage Lines
Knocking from Inside