And then it was April, National Poetry Month. . . . the month of death breeding life, of life kicking off death’s pants, of daffodils and tulips and redbud trees and mockingbirds that sing incessantly, of the cradle endlessly rocking, the day endlessly alive with hope and warmer wind, of white legs and squinting, bees gearing up for the feast to come. Continue reading
When Luke was a child, we occasionally celebrated May Day. We lived in a neighborhood surrounded by old people, and we would make May day baskets, hang them on their doorknobs, knock, and run. Of course, the parent-sanctioned knocking on a door and then running was the favorite part of the whole deal for Luke. Continue reading
The rain has fallen all night. And today it is spring. Today begins that season, “when the world is mudluscious” and “the goat-footed balloonman whistles far and wee.” It is spring “when my heart with pleasure fills and dances with the daffodils.” Well…..as soon as the flood is over, I’ll do that dancing anyway.
They were fifteen and smoked Lucky Strikes
on the train to Tulsa. Both wore their best dress.
Montie Jean’s was blue taffeta with lace
crocheted along the collar. She had to stand
or stroll to keep it from creasing at her hips. Continue reading