Today I recognize

the black buds, like a calf’s

wet hooves, of the Ash Trees

of the World calls Fraxinus

excelsior, the chartreuse

tubular flowers of Salix fragilis,

which filled with nectar while

we still shook hands, pushed

onto endless, crowded trains,

rushed for the bright orange seat

that seemed empty, in fact contained

a clear puddle. I stand six feet

from a toddler who cups his palms,

tells his father caterpillar!