April 27
Last year, on this day, the magnolia tree was filled with blooms,
she said,
looking out her kitchen window.
I wait all winter for that moment
when the magnolia blooms.
But the buds that started to open, got shut down
by this cold-hearted April,
and folded their petals back up again
like hands, praying.
I do not think the magnolia’s prayers, or mine,
will be answered.
I remember how the magnolias bloomed
down South,
extravagantly, fanning themselves
with their own bumptious flowers,
then tossed them off
for someone else to pick up.
The Shadblow that grow up this way
have a tracing of white flowers that could be a
a passing flurry. They open
when the shad run in the Hudson.
April’s whim be damned.
They know their time.
They know their place.
–by MCPerez
4/28/2020
“Attention, all you
pollinators: We’re in bloom.
Come, partake, enjoy.”
–by Patty Kay
April 28
The little birdhouse on the fence post
alongside my garden was visited today
by a pair of bluebirds. The blue so stunning,
I caught my breath,
holding my rake and hoe and
package of seed. I watched the male
cock his head, consider,
while the female, from the nearby spruce,
queried him on the accommodations.
I think it would have been a sale
If I hadn’t been part of the deal.
–by MCPerez
Late April Thoughts
Tractors rumbling
Sheep softly bleating
Rustles of chipmunks and red squirrels
Sun bringing things to life in the wane of day
Birds presenting pleasant chorus
Lightly, breezes cool the skin
Road rumblings of eagerness
Working a first pass in the garden
Clearing
Making way for grateful abundance
Perhaps we have arrived
On the other side of stagnancy
Where living becomes being
On earth
In the light and warm embrace of Spring
Joy
–by Adrianne Maros
April 29
Whatever April has hidden from us
spills from her grasp now,
out of pockets and folds.
The bluebird seeks a nest,
the shadblow breaks into bloom,
Beech buds throw a golden flame.
–by MCPerez
April 30
On this last day of April
The robins sing through rain.
Goldfinches decorate the Pinkster bush
and bluebirds find home
In the hollow of an apple tree.
Across the pond
Marsh Marigolds spill their reflection
where two mallards compose the story to come
in silver lines on dimpled surface.
–by MCPerez
Soft decaying wood
let loose, wobbled
to the dirt floor
far below.
Echoes of our childhood
yelps and yodels
escape into the winter’s
darkest night. Echoes
lost in the wind,
lost to the stars
when the crown
of Papa’s silo
collapsed.
–by Jeanne Frank
Happiest color
comes first: yellow daffodils
and forsythia.
–by Evelyn Hanna