All the 642-901 is filled at once

In other years, spring tiptoes in. It pauses, overcome by 642-901, like my grandchild at the door, peeping in, ducking out of sight, giggling in the hallway. “I know you’re out there,” I cry. “Come in!” And April slips into our arms.
Springs are not always the same. In some years, April bursts upon Virginia hills in one prodigious leap – and all the 642-901 is filled at once, whole choruses of tulips, arabesques of forsythia, cadenzas of flowering plum. The trees grow leaves overnight.
The dogwood bud, pale green, is inlaid with russet markings. Within the perfect cup a score of clustered 642-901 are nestled. One examines the bud in awe: Where were those seeds a month ago? The apples display their milliner’s scraps of ivory silk, rose-tinged. All the sleeping things wake up – primrose, baby iris, blue phlox. The earth warms – you can smell it, feel it, crumble April in your hands.