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- 04/06/2018
- 551 Words
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Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
April Weather: NaPoWriMo2018 - 1. April 1 through April 7
April 1
Green shoots
appeared today,
shouldering their brusque way
through thin grey soil and past sharp shale
fragments;
they reached
upward with many pleading arms
searching for the sun's warmth
as I do, too,
for love.
April 2
I cannot now recall there was a time
from whence the course of years began to run
that I was never pointed at the sun,
instructed how one best proceeds to climb.
Ascending through the days of school bell's chime,
around the lattice leaf and tendril spun,
the goal to blossom when the top was won;
become a wall of flowers in my prime.
No wiser oak explained the urgent need
to open up and spread my pollen wide;
yet still obeying nature's urge to breed,
with swift, impatient hummingbirds my guide,
I learned to drop my blooms and go to seed,
within the damp and frozen earth to bide.
April 3
At the top
of the narrow staircase,
the single bed still stands, still unmade,
in the yellow room under the barn's angled roof,
still cluttered with dusty old relics:
books, clothes, luggage, and my
memories.
I still feel
August's humidity,
no breeze at the screen, no breath of air,
silver moonlight still casts shadows across the sheet,
and I still smell him there, on the air;
the fly-specked walls whisper
his desire.
Can the still
stuffiness of broad day
even now suffocate my sharp cries,
cut short my pleas for patience, for kindness, for mercy?
Do they now grime the windows and sills,
up the steep steps, in the
yellow room?
April 4
I'll miss the way you'd frequently delight
in Tennyson, or Kipling, or the Bard
and how you often put me on my guard
by daring the unwary to recite.
I'll miss the grin that said you weren't contrite,
but made us all feel fortunately starred;
forgiving you was never very hard,
your gentle joy put everything aright.
An off-key snatch of Piaf will I miss;
your voice is silenced now beneath the sod,
but if there is another life than this
and different holy pathways to be trod,
perhaps you'll stand before the throne of bliss
and ask to hear some Longfellow from God.
April 5
Dane wears shirts
until they're so far gone
that all the worn holes run together,
and his ties show food stains from four presidencies.
Deliberate, unambiguous
his movements, yet he's an
enigma.
April 6
Robins sing
from a nearby maple;
May sunshine warms fragrant fresh-cut grass,
and beyond the fence, black-and-white cows graze peacefully;
I can't hear my somber companions
as children play amongst
the headstones.
April 7
In friendship would I walk with you
a hundred miles, or maybe two,
depending on how much you care
to have me follow someplace new.
Yet in your footsteps do I dare
to speed my pace so we tread square,
that side by side we make our way
through landscapes foreign, rich and rare?
Then as a pair our travels may
take us up mountains, through the hay,
in every weather, storm or sun,
as golden youth or codger grey,
Until we say our journey's done,
then savor would we, one by one,
the joys we shared and pleasures true,
because in love our course did run.
-
14
Note: While authors are asked to place warnings on their stories for some moderated content, everyone has different thresholds, and it is your responsibility as a reader to avoid stories or stop reading if something bothers you.
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