April

Things are gentle again
Even the ripples rolling onto shore
are languid,
a loving tongue,
sure footstep,
a splayed hand

I am barefoot on the sand,
unlovely,
tracking a child's foot,
a dog's

The night birds --
are they only shadows,
figments of the space between dusk
and night --
begin to flit,
upland cedar,
the ragged black branches
I once sketched in pastel,
unaware of my future

Trip to the vernal pond
to hear the mammalian-throated frogs,
chaser of peepers,
Brazilian beat

New tulips, dainty,
and the trees in their new red buds, brushy-tipped

When life was still flush with the swell
of beginnings,
edges blurred by choices,
I carried them in handfuls,
a bouquet