Early April. My oak’s taken on frills
color of golden rod, nodding its locks
yes to muttering wind. Fickle jonquils
look away, no doubt seeking mirrors. Flocks
of sparrows swirl. Hermiting mockingbirds,
seeming stubborn loners, somehow chorus
echoes of cardinal, cricket, absurd
belching frog in ironic tune. For us,
love, lost in this light approaching dusk, spring
offers more than earth’s flexing its thick flesh,
wrapping us in magnificent air. Things
join us in our labor of living, fresh
sounds, sights and smells urging us to embrace
them all and each other. Church bells say grace.
Roger Armbrust
April 2, 2010
