The Marrying Kind

The trees are engaged this year, fig to myrtle, myrtle to pine, pine to palm, feeling each other up in seasonal delirium. Each speaks a different dialect, yet borders are open, no passport is needed. Wind, their license for intercourse, speeds up the vows--Yes Dear, I Do, I do, and anyhow we're rooted here among hibiscus flower girls and azalea groomsmen before April dazzle gives way to spurious summer. Cling, Cling, sing the wind chimes. Mendelssohn it's not, but there's pep enough to put spring in your step