Spring has come, with all its worries.
Poison ivy isn’t yet spreading
through the lawn, but I’m on the watch.
The wood we can’t burn, contaminated
last year, is stacked by the fence.
I haven’t had a rash since childhood,
but can still smell the calamine.
No bee stings or sun-blistered
skin for decades. The oak needs trimming.
I dump the water that stands in flowerpots,
hoping to deny mosquitoes a birthplace.
I know what’s coming: ants, flies,
pollen, fleas. I have to live through it,
waiting for fall to prune back life
and return my world to me.