bouquets of cicada brides whose courtship
made the sky sing so in May.
The wedding music stopped, these are left,
to be caught by maidens in seventeen years.
You know it’s hard to concentrate
when pear trees across the street
burst out overnight, flaunting their
astonishing plumes of white confetti.
I smell the earth for the first time as I take a walk, my first in many months of being housebound.
Well, honest John, how fare you now at home?
On the road by the arena,
puddles fill ditches
and flaxen rushes wave
in March rain.
propel yourself forward—
as in airplane force
or Air Force or forceps
forcing a baby to be born
The beginnings of a dark cloud of worry about the virus moved in to share space with the more festive anticipation of amaryllis blooms.
The sky is a stoic blue, hard as a marble, with little wimpy clouds that carry nothing more than a few regrets from a dying winter. We’re here, right on the precipice of a season.
To what purpose, April, do you return again?
Beauty is not enough.
On the calendar we see the bold square, marking the number 21 in March, marking our hope, our deep breath— 21, our emerald prolepsis, our brain’s fast synapse between withdrawal … Continue reading