A Thousand Shades of Green

The five-acre lot behind me is verdant in the spring.
How could I ever paint so many shades of green?
The yellow-green willow, the blue-green spruce, and the two-tone leaves of the maple, just to name a few.
The grass—dark green with spring onion, light green where it is sparse, speckled with white clover and wood violets.
The deep greens of shade and the bright greens in sunlight.
What artist's palette could ever hold a thousand shades of green?

May is vernal, ever-new, and evergreen.
Green is innocent, budding, young, and tender.
Unripe like green bananas or green tea.
As inexperienced as a greenhorn off a ship.

My green thumb itches to add contrasting flowers:
Red geraniums, pink impatiens, and yellow-centered daises.
I long for tender salad greens and green onions.
My man stands in the garden staking tomato plants,
Like the Green Giant among the rows of tiny seedlings.
Sniffing the air in anticipation, a rabbit stands on hind legs.
A wire fence keeps him from his garden dinner.
My herbs and perennials are his ample compensation.