Spring and Fall to an Old Man

April stopped by with its cool sunshine
that feels warm only by contrast.

We imagined ourselves
seeking clovers in the grass
by the pile of unburned logs.

Before we knew it

was here it wasn’t, the hyacinths,

green sticks,

shriveled brown tips,
wrinkled bits of color,
like wads of chewed gum,

and the daffodils' blooms 
dull yellow paper
dried and drooping,
lying on rocks
like the heads of the condemned.

We should have checked the calendar

before we bolted out the door.