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Why can’t I be more like
the linden, patient, slow,
hedging my bets against the uncertain
spring, pausing to leaf out until the all-clear
signal sounds,
or at least I could emulate
the cautious oak, sticking
a few toes into a chilly May morning,
getting a feel for what portends
before plunging in,
but instead I am forever the impetuous
maple, the one that can’t wait,
impatient, frantically hoisting my green flags
come what may, simply because the calendar
now tells us: “Spring is here.”
May 2015