Calliope's Carousel - 1. April 1st to April 9th

1. April

In April,

first things arise each day:

the early Claytonia open,

honeybees begin their dances in the scilla,

Hyacinths tune lavender trumpets,

and herald the phoebes

making nests.

Yet also,

April watches last things:

the final, heavy, sodden snowfall;

one tardy crocus blooming ‘midst its slain brethren;

skis and sleds returned to their storage;

and washed winter blankets

hung to dry.

2. Reflections

Last night was Love made mockery, reviled,

though at our dusty feet he humbly knelt,

the teacher washed the wretched, hungry child

and his betrayer with his moneyed belt.

Love bathed the proud ambitious leader, too,

who could not let this simple kindness bide,

accepting not what Love and Light might do

demanding more placation to his pride.

Yet what if they, and we, might places change,

and on our knees together others serve;

how might the world’s injustice rearrange

itself and change the fragile arc of our life’s curve?

Perhaps in loving one another, we

each other’s Love and Light we truly see.

3. Joy

Joy sits still

waiting for its moment,

quietly biding in green gloaming

till light spreads abroad, covering hill and valley

to catch the stone cold hearts unawares,

to sweep them off their feet,

and break them.

4. Yesterday and Today

Yesterday, I climbed the hill,

but halfway up

felt out of breath,

and so, stood still,

listening to the silent wood,

amidst the trunks

of beech and ash,

and maples good.

Distantly, sapsuckers tapped

a message known

to but a few

held thus enrapt;

Closer still, the kinglets sang

so high above

I could not see

whence their calls rang.

Down below, a carpet green

of newborn ramps

and bedstraw fine

spread fresh and clean;

those who pay attention might

by patiently

awaiting hear

them grow at night.

Waking up to brilliant sun -

I saw its beams

upon the wall –

my heart was won;

you, in gentle slumber’s hold

breathed peacefully

and happy still

while bathed in gold.

Smiling, too, I dared caress

your graying hair

so like to mine

but did not press

lips unused to this new day

to flesh exposed

by how your head

that moment lay.

Our tomorrow could yet bring

adversities,

or anxious news,

or anything;

now is all that touches us -

transcending age

or ticking time –

just cuddled thus.

5. Age

I’m too old

For cruel hearts grown cold

Unable fair justice to discern,

All exhortations crying mercy thus to spurn,

Away from concord’s blessings to turn,

and from all plain truth told,

to gall sold.

6. Cream Cans

It wasn’t until

I started helping my father with sugaring

that I learned a pearl of old wisdom

from his partner:

always fill your biggest cream cans first.

I scratched my head

and cudgeled my adolescent brain

for this seemed counter to my grain –

the smaller cans would fill quicker,

and be easier to carry.

Yet those bigger, more full cans

meant less sap left behind,

and thus less waste,

so more finished syrup in the jar.

Life has run far longer, in greater spate,

than any sap could hope for,

with yet uncounted buckets to gather,

yet at every tree, in every task, in every situation,

I find myself inwardly reaching

for the largest cream can.

7: Picture Postcard

See the water flowing at right angles

and the mist from deep below arising,

next to which a broken bridge now dangles

gawkers on the rocks below baptizing,

through it all the sun shines blazing brightly

turning droplets into tiny prisms

as the studied scholars eruditely

liken rainbows unto chromatisms.

Turn the picture over to its flipside,

find the message stated only briefly

in the rush and bustle of life’s riptide

I’d prevail upon good fortune chiefly—

though I can’t presume to be demanding—

for your presence here beside me standing.

8. Ill Met

We both woke

in very different beds

and wandered out into the darkness,

one for breakfast, and the other for exercise,

crossing paths quite unexpectedly;

I wish that skunk and I

had not met.

9. An Ode to Fresh Bread

I sing in praise of humble bread,

well-kneaded, risen in its bed,

its chemistry awaked

and then to golden baked.

Extol with me its perfect scent

which nothing else can supplement

nor memories impart

to still the anxious heart.

And in the morning, it can boast

such flavor heated into toast

spread fine with honey sweet

and butter can’t be beat.