The Smell of Fresh Mulch

In Reverence of Spring.

peach_tulips_charles-perrault-88303_unsplash.jpg
(Credit: Unsplash)

I’m in New England it’s early May

Spring coolness, brown fuzz-dust

Fairy dust garden workings

All the hedges, trees, gardens, are nourished once again with protective coverings of mulch.

A blower sounds; the landscapers are head down, working hard.

Everything looks cleaned up.

Green flowers blowing through the air and falling from the trees

Catching in the windshield wipers of parked cars

Make a small sound like rain but they’re not

Around another corner the street is quieter, birds sing, chimes blow lightly in the wind on someone’s porch

Tree branches thick, full of pink flowers, bunched — fertile — abundant — clustered.

Pink petals sail satinly

Press into the wet pavement, float dryly on the puddles

A little one wearing yellow boots holds onto his mother’s hand and stomps both feet happily, simultaneously, into the water

Which reflects blue sky

Clouds move briskly across it

Sunshine ebbs and flows

The smell of mulch is thick in the air; woody, perfumed

I want to dig in the soil and plant small purple and yellow flowers

On my knees.

One last thing…

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Originally published on Medium.

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