I am always on the verge of rapture rising into Aprils blue skies at the sound of birdsong or scent of budding roses or his footsteps on the gravel path of the garden he creates for me each and every morning
lying on the old sofa in the screened porch
my view is of the tree tops
bold black strokes of a calligraphers pen
drawing thick trunks and long limbs
across a carolina blue sky
filled in with sponged leaf and green buds
interrupted by fat chenille bumbles bouncing
against the screen
and the fussing of wren parents going on about whose turn it is
to feed the hungry littles
soft spring breezes from an april I’ve never lived
in my previous lives rocks me gently in this spacious afternoon
but now its five o’clock and the rumble of a late day train
shakes me from this reverie as the small dog tunes
to the trains whistling call
and I rise to rummage through the pantry
for the makings of the evening dinner
wings sweep across the sapphire sky
slipping into currents unseen
raising temperature and faces
sunward into vernal hopes
of Aprils softness and fury of green-
ing buds rising swiftly
into a sapphire sky
swept with wings
and wild song
we are all April fools
are we not
when chill winds blow upon the water
cascading spent blossoms of pink and white confetti
into the sunlit air
how could we have been so suckered in
by that impossibly warm day in March when the ground
was covered in violets and the bees were already
at their dance
April smiles wide in her buttercup gown
all sunshine and pheromones and sweet kissed skies
as we cover the tender lettuces
with old sheets and pillow cases
to soften her frosty night
one more time.
With reckless abandon, Spring sweeps in
drifting acid green pollen in her wake.
She scorns the late winters chill
riding bareback and bare footed
into the robin egged morning.
What joie de vivre!
What carpe diem!
What sweet mysteries of bloom and bud
are whispered from her tulip petaled mouth!
She dazzles the bees, drunk
with their golden wares
all knapsacked to spill before their queen.
But, for me, I’ll take a garden rampant with green-
ferns astilbe mums roses lilies dianthus hollyhocks coreopsis violets
with a few bindweed and clover and poison ivy too-
moneywort overtaking the gravel path,
cheek by jowl to the lemon thyme,
columbine gone to seed,
and foxglove hiding behind the iris blades,
hostas shading the damn rabbits,
birds alight everywhere,
filling the air with color and song.
This is my garden, my delight,
my beautiful chaotic Eden.
This poem is a bucket.
This poem is a moonbeam.
This poem is my husband.
A container of vague reference and history,
its origins unknown but its utility humbly significant.
Whether wooden or metallic in form, it chooses
to be the holder or keeper of all possibilities,
whether rain or mop water or tender young things safely carried.
This poem is a bucket.
Petals of pale yellow dancing in the spring breeze,
moving with the changing weather and seasons.
Sturdy and perennial, its heart moves with the tides
of earth, rain and sun. It is hardworking and dependable,
though its many faces show its charm and golden light.
This poem is a moonbeam coreopsis.
He is the bringer of gifts, deeply rooted and bound to the rich soil of our earth.
A partner in a garden of different minds,
growing in systematic wildness, each portrayed
in the best possible light or shade depending on its habits.
He is the keeper of spades and implements, ancient rituals of furrows and seed.
He is the blue eyed boy smiling with his weed filled bouquet.
This poem is my husband.
This poem is a moonbeam coreopsis brought home in a bucket by my husband.
*** A boomerang poem-a form created by Hannah Gosselin
whose instructions can be found on Hannah’s site, Metaphors and Smiles,
Copyright © Hannah Gosselin and Metaphors and Smiles, 2011-14
A beautiful afternoon is always more beautiful in an April garden. The columbines are putting on a colorful display in such wonderful combinations. A blue is blooming, lots of mauve and lavender, a few frilly white blooms and many double blossoms again this year. Our favorite is a small salmon and yellow bloom on a tall slender plant- a wild columbine from seeds we harvested on a walk a few years ago.
My large hosta, for some reason, (probably chipmunks!) has not returned. I dug where the roots should be and no sign at all. That may be one purchase I will make this year – a few hostas to fill in the center of the garden.
Our baby dogwoods are growing with abandon – and we had 18 blooms across the three largest trees this year! Yea! We will move a few of the trees out into the yard this fall. And the two redbuds will be moved to flank the western edge of the garden.
Big fat bumblebees were very busy working across the garden and making their acquaintance with each bloom.
This weekend, we will head to the garden center for lots of flowers and plants to fill the pots for the patio. Then all that is left to do is enjoy the beauty. And water and fertilize and deadhead and weed and weed and weed.
Green is the color of April-
pale green of tender shoots,
deeper shade across the heart shaped leaves,
sprinkled with petals of all flowers
on the path of the dancing honey bee.