Poetry: The Months

The Months
–Lin­da Pastan
From The Last Uncle

March
When the Earl King came
to steal away the child
in Goethe’s poem, the father said
don’t be afraid,
it’s just the wind…
As if it weren’t the wind
that blows away the tender
frag­ments of this world–
left­over leaves in the corners
of the gar­den, a Lenten Rose
that thought it safe
to bloom so early.

April
In the pas­tel blur
of the garden,
the cherry
and redbud
shake rain
from their delicate
shoul­ders, as petals
of pink
dogwood
wash down the ditches
in dreamlike
rivers of color.

May
Mayap­ple, daffodil,
hyacinth, lily,
and by the front
porch steps
every billowing
shade of purple
and laven­der lilac,
my moth­er’s favorite flower,
sweet breath drift­ing through
the open windows:
per­fume of memory-conduit
of spring.

Cyn is a proud Mommy & Mémé, professional geek, avid reader, fledgling coder, enthusiastic gamer (TTRPGs), occasional singer, and devoted stitcher.
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