It is a good year for Mayflowers
They are sprawling
on the hill
leading to the chicken coop
and the shop
A heavenly layer
trailing beside the big pine
they frame the soft and
greening moss
with their
white to purplish honey scented
tiny petals

The ritual changes
year to year
In my youth
our grandparents picnicked
at Christentown
to cut the small
fragrant bunches
We’d “thank you mam”
to the slow rise
in our Willy’s jeep
We’d settle on a blanket
eating simple sandwiches
among the mossy graves where
the Island’s first inhabitants
took on their own
Christian blooming
I can see my grandma now
cutting with old shears
the tiny stems

Now I lie prone
on our small hill
with my new grandson
cutting with
our shears
this years’
Soaked with love
we inhale the
and smell
behind the colored blush
the nutty woodtaste
of this new spring
Drenched in melted
winter past
we gently
pass the blooms
to new moms and dads