Near Emmy Noether’s Pied-À-Terre In Heaven

Some kids and older wastrels hung around.
The least those utter darlings could’ve done
was wait quietly. For something. Rain will come,
if decades past are any guide. One cloud
is poised already over our ancient slopes.
More small arms fire down in the canyon means Easter, I think. (An eye on the moon’s phase
behooves.) So, smoothly bursting forth, Marin’s
wildflowers have certified another spring
as genuine. Try turning on a dime
when you’re our age! ancient gatherers laugh.
And not without reason, the eastern hills are waking up: wake-robin in west Marin,
wallflower, silverweed, and false lupine
—enough for the entire second grade.
Out in our bed of roses, Valentine’s
Day is a vague memory. And spring’s sun
is only intermittently on time, according to our sundial. My career
as a geographer’s keeping me bound
to very few latitudes. There’ll be time—
down in Muir Woods, or up Cataract Gulch—
enough for ruing, space for an homage
or two. Go now, pull on your seven-league boots!