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.
