When spring comes around
tractor beams of sunthe pitchfork turns
leaves molted a season ago;
all returned to humus,
energy for the coming light.
Birds darken the sky,
replace blue with grey and the lonesome cry
of gathering, and in branches
and under logs mossed velvet
life scurries awake,
erasing slumber.
There comes a day,
just one, when tree limbsstretch to clouds, shake off
their grey, and cerise buds
unfurl to peculiar yellow
green before fading
to drab, the burnt-out
monochrome of summer.
Another April finished. Another month of poetry, another birthday, another singular day when the landscape goes chartreuse. I feel a little sad, and relieved; April reassures with its predictability. Peace...
(Painting by Gael Murakami)
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