The Smell of Fresh Mulch

In reverence of spring.

Im in New England its early May

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Spring coolness, brown fuzz-dust

Fairy dust garden workings

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

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

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Everything looks cleaned up.

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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 theyre not

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

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

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Pink petals sail satinly

Press into the wet pavement, float dryly on the puddles

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

Which reflects blue sky

Clouds move briskly across it

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Sunshine ebbs and flows

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

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

On my knees.

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One last thing

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Originally published on Medium.