It all happens so fast

It bursts green out of the bloody red spring
of young radish sprouts in giddy new mayhem

and ends, in an immeasurably ironic reversal,
with damp raptures in a crowded wet summer-

the orange giggle of pin-oak suddenly pokes
into the quick shimmer green of north white light

and speeds up waving crisp blue curtain beams
through the too early close of a frost black snow.

Watching birth from the dirt

Every green bit grin rising from flat brown
follows the same joyful split seed eruption-
be it sullen dill or dry basil or wry cilantro,
each patience tests eager hovering potters.

A green man similar shares peculiarities burst
upward although seed is coveted mostly when
a strict hat denies erect red and blue venalities
from a joyful thrust into spread white clouds.

Is it wrong to fuck the sky?