April is National Poetry Month

April 11, 2012

April is National Poetry Month.

Blossoms mass on the cherry trees.
Liquid light draws forth their pinks, brings into being colors I have not before seen.
Blue from the open sky,
Browns from the house paint on the doors and windows of 1st Street.

Like an existential alarm clock,
April calls out through the old cold air
to wake me from a walking sleep.

Today, since it is National Poetry Month, the world means more than it did in March.
The street is wetter where the morning man has used his floral acid
to wash away last night’s restaurant smells.
Parmesan.  Old milk.  Rot.

It is Tuesday, trash day.  The garbage truck crawls slowly up the slope.
But since it is also April, I hear each stop’s whoosh smash, air brakes releasing.
The man in his soft green sweatshirt pulls a lever,
And all the waste of yesterday is crushed deep within.

In a poem, the world means more than it can otherwise pull off.

April is the coffee and toothpaste on my tongue, or it is that which gets me to notice.

April is the mother who pulls on a branch of the cherry tree, saying,
“This kind smells like candy.”
April is the twang of the branch as it springs back to the sky.

“Welcome again to the world,” April whispers conspiratorially in my ear.
“How about, just for a month or so,
I help this old world greet you
like it is your newest friend?”

Comments on this entry are closed.

Previous post:

Next post: