April

APRIL

Down the road, a child practices

“Rustle of Spring” on her grandmother's Chickering.

The small farmhouse windows are propped

by foot and a half split logs;

her arpeggios reach our cabin as if

a part of the night's programme.

The cats sit on the porch rail

contemplatively, a model audience

grateful for the warm companionly air

which brings a crowd—moles, robins,

tree frogs.

Easter here is a sneak-up-behind kind of joy;

red leaf buds suddenly opened,

creek violets in a “Surprise!” pose,

juncos twittering at our

slow-to-see handicaps.

I hum along. Spring rustles in

and out of Beth Amanda's fingers

and joins the quiet roar

of the land reborn.

Published in BRANCHES Volume Five 1990