April Yard
The coiled spring of the sun
finally snaps, shooting hot gold
forsythia fireworks across
new grass, picnic table, dirt-crusted
chore shirt. Just-born gnats
like tiny rebel fighters
ramp up the blue runway
of the sky, leaving
winter’s soup of dead brown
to disappear under the renewed oath
of the creeping Charlie—first to come,
last to die, green and reeking
of stubborn life.
No comments:
Post a Comment