April by Hannah Pedersen
Strange how spring can make even concrete shine,
the light we already knew, but lost,
awakened from it’s sleep, nervous in power.
Ribbons and failings of white and pale pink
mimic the trite rains the town has used-up.
Deep sleeves exchange with sundresses, pastel,
cotton on the skin, the cold loosing breath.
Once naked branches extending to lift
the mood, swimming yellow pollen infecting eyes
itching, sneezing, coughing, reckless and gold.
Chrysanthemums bloomed, in hughes so pure,
nature’s calling for constant attention,
like red wine spilt on mother’s white carpet.
chaos of petals shield cunning spiders,
flies stuck in the web, like red on the cheek.
The days become louder, brilliant, vivid,
like a melody tangled in your head
the one you are wishing was never sung.
Footsteps go along, frantic in rhythems
below, the ants swerve, avoiding their death.
Hollow winter giving way to the warmth,
birds gossip that our troubles will be gone.
Passionate and intense, deep in embrace,
the rays melting the heavy, grey rubber
With spring days are fixed, but minds numbing, soft
like a filthy window getting cleaned; knocked out.
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