I found this poem last spring, just after the last forsythia bush had turned green. I had to wait a whole year for the next blooming, and then I found that the poem is absolutely right. No one does plant forsythia anymore. The forsythia I found was mostly on private property. Private property with overgrown yews and old landscaping.
I finally found a row of forsythia by the library, separating the parking lot from a busy highway:
poem is in bush
and taped Alison Brackenbury’s “Schemes” to a branch:
I love this little poem, but can’t figure out why it’s called “Schemes.” Any ideas?
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