What It Is

 

It is April.

The leaves are coming in.

The grass is growing high.

Spring is learning what it is.

There is no cycle at work.

This has not happened before.

The plants have no memory.

Hornets inspect their buds

preparing new catalogs.

Every day someone new

sees you at the beginning,

wherever it is you begin.

In the yard, the garden.

On the side of the road.

You are remindful, you

who has no idea of

the long nights of winter,

who does not know itself

but is curious to know.

They say it’s beautiful.


R. Charboneau

 

Artwork: Vincent van Gogh – Park at the Asnieres in Spring (1887)

Spring Alleviate

 

The day is apparently beautiful

I suppose I should love today

how pigeons pirouette in courtship

 

and she, flying forth, leaves him

and still he twirls in place, dances on

Why should he not? the day is beautiful

 

Should sparrows not alight in warm winds

steering and splitting the air like a kite

gliding effortlessly, as playfully as children

 

who balance on the edge of the riverwalk?

Should they too not also enjoy themselves?

For surely it must be a beautiful day.

 

Should the robin not be curious of me

brazen and full of courage for crumbs

wondering at the contents of my bag?

 

Should geese not honk in salutation

and wrens not siren such foreign notes?

Of course. It is a beautiful day


R. Charboneau

 

Artwork – Pissarro – Springtime in Eragny (1890)