This Time of Year



The bloodroots
this time of year must be
freed from the crowd of wild strawberries
that grew up in the summer, when it is
possible to forget the snowy blossoms
which were April’s all-in-all.
Nothing against the strawberries
and their tenacity, the buttery gold
of their own flowering.
It’s a matter, simply,
of the few and precious to the memory,
against the throngs of which one
has known nothing but the plentitude.
Everything is so small. You must
press ground down with one thumb
to keep the fuzzy baby bloodroots
from uprooting.
Pull with the other, the pitying hand,
the interlopers, up.
You must say something.
Forgive me. . . forgive me. . .
There is enough room now for only what I love.