For Day Ten of National Poetry Month
blossoms hang like grapes
threaded through the trees
five pale blue eggs in the nest
on the front door wreath
grass, fresh-cut fragrance
green carpet for morning sun
not yet grown brutal
Wisteria decadence. Took this photo four days ago. I love wisteria and its whispers of bygone days. I have even written a short story in the voice of a wisteria vine, set in rural NC in the early part of the 20th century. Plants, after all, are said to have memory and feelings…
Just some fleeting impressions while sweeping my porch … the beauty of the day in such stark contrast to what’s happening in the world …
While sweeping the porch this April day
there’s children at distant play
cool breeze blowing
like nothing’s wrong
as if only rebirth
sweeps the Earth
not humanity hurled
A spring reception
of such deception.
Beautiful day, you’re almost cruel
playing such an April fool.
If you were here with me you could see these pansies quivering despite the brightness of the morning. The name of this colorful, dark-eyed flower comes from French penser, “to think.” Pansies symbolize contemplation and remembrance.
The first day of April – glorious. A sky as blue as it ever gets, hardly a cloud to be seen. Dogwoods and redbuds, bare just days ago, flowering profusely. On the breeze, the scent of blossoms, almost like perfume – winter daphne, I think.
All marking the end of desolation. Nature composes a theme of renewal with color, fragrance, amber light and birdsong.
At the close of the day, I celebrate its beauty. I celebrate the inherent message of hope with the arrival of another spring. Even the news carries a rare inspirational story about a man opening his front door to find his dog, missing for four years, back home on the porch. He sat down and the dog put her head in his lap – what an emotional celebration that must have been.
Today is also the first day of National Poetry month. I have recently discovered a lost booklet of poems that I wrote as a teenager. All things considered, this particular poem struck me as one appropriately celebratory – winter is over, spring has returned; a lost dog has returned home; my lost poems are found.
I wrote it when I was sixteen. Back then, I called it “Yesterdays.”
Yesterdays are gone
Leaving nothing but memories behind
And, if meant to be, a chance for tomorrow.
So weep no more
For what once was,
For it may be