I’m tired of all this beauty—
forsythia blooming as if to apologize
for the long, hard winter.
Soon the kids will hide
behind the trees growing
along the fenceline.
They will hide and I will seek them
through the thin flush of color,
skinny arms and legs
transformed by laughter
in the numb drum of spring.
Those yellow branches
wave to me, call me to child’s play,
but something in me refuses
even when the wind knocks the buds
to the ground, without grace,
in the inexact language of April.