I heard all four seasons will come here tomorrow, maybe all at once like hot chairs and floors, mosquitoes and terrycloth coverups, baggy maple-syruped candlelight bowling, fingerless gloves, a turtle in a dishpan, a snowdrop poking up like a plastic grocery bag, before the lilacs hide me again from the neighbors' perfect compost heap, a sexy sweet sweat, a late harvest flystrip serrated knives and four-wheel-drive. I hope it doesn't come all at once.