It is, perhaps, premature to offer a spring poem from my chair in New England. But the crocuses are blooming — yesterday we counted twenty-one next to the garage — and I wish I had an orchard (romantic, I know, and all the orchard-growers out there will tell me how much work I’d be in for), so this week I’m reading “Pear Tree,” by the Imagist poet H.D. (less mysteriously, Hilda Doolittle).

And, with a pithiness that I hope befits the poet, that’s that.