I trudged up the hill.
Too cold to leave
The jacket at home.
The sun lit
Chaste white faces of
Spotted toad lilies.
The rose-breasted grosbeak
Warbled his joy.

Up over the dew-crusted hill,
At the end of the manicured glade.
349 feet from her new
Lemon yellow VW Bug.
Beneath the bobbing heads of her
Purple flowering garlic.
Last week,
My neighbor hid a secret.
I’ll bet he wished
He’d never bought her
The shovel.

I should have known
Something was wrong
When she smiled at me.
Garlic smells musky,
Not like rotting meat.
April was wearing
Red and black spotted boots.
Like the wings of a ladybug.