4/20/09   The world lifts in springtime right off of the ground with the song from the robin--immaculate sound-- maligned dandelions, soft joy in each bud race jonquils and "hot flowers" up through the mud. Bugs by the bucket fly upward toward Heaven To dance over treetops, to shout the word "seven," For that is the number, for that is the word (or at least it's what I hear from bee and from bird, and if ears are mistaken, they willfully err) for the number of years that we've been a pair in wonder-filled wedlock. Your warm golden band encircles my heart more than adorns my hand. We married in April; now you are the spring that, in my spirit, turns every leaf green. Through summer's mosquitoes, and fall's golden days, And winter's hard ice and impenetrable grays, My inside is April; my soul is a kite and you, steady wind that brings it to flight.