Petals by Ivy Jones

Petals

Cherry blossoms let me know April’s here.

It snows the light pink petals from a breeze.

They send them zooming like mail in express.

Each slowly drift through the air like they have

All the time in the world to get where they

Are going. Once they hit the ground a change

Occurs. It jumps to fast forward with no

Pause or hopes of stopping them from moving.

Each petal is the shape of a rain drop.

Almost perfect in shape but each unique

Be it the vein running through it or the

Different shades of pigment at the edges.

Whether they are attached to the tree or

Not. They each hold their own shape to the light.

It is like seeing a prism held up

To the sun. Each beam bounces off to a

New direction for hopes of a new start.

Touching the petal brings back memories

Of baby showers, soft blankets, and silk.

How can a petal so small bring all that?

Rubbing them between my fingers was so

Peaceful and smooth. Like lotion without the

Must to rub every ounce into the skin.

These petals cover the ground, randomly.

They accent aspects of the earth not seen

Before, but these little petals changed that.

Their patterns on the ground are not in line

And do not have a specific shape or

Size but somehow lay out the perfect grid

Of hues, lights, color to complete the scene.

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Poem of the Day:

April Inventory

BY W. D. SNODGRASS

The green catalpa tree has turned

All white; the cherry blooms once more.   

In one whole year I haven’t learned   

A blessed thing they pay you for.   

The blossoms snow down in my hair;   

The trees and I will soon be bare.

The trees have more than I to spare.   

The sleek, expensive girls I teach,   

Younger and pinker every year,   

Bloom gradually out of reach.

The pear tree lets its petals drop   

Like dandruff on a tabletop.

The girls have grown so young by now   

I have to nudge myself to stare.

This year they smile and mind me how   

My teeth are falling with my hair.   

In thirty years I may not get

Younger, shrewder, or out of debt.

The tenth time, just a year ago,   

I made myself a little list

Of all the things I’d ought to know,   

Then told my parents, analyst,   

And everyone who’s trusted me   

I’d be substantial, presently.

I haven’t read one book about

A book or memorized one plot.   

Or found a mind I did not doubt.

I learned one date. And then forgot.   

And one by one the solid scholars   

Get the degrees, the jobs, the dollars.

And smile above their starchy collars.

I taught my classes Whitehead’s notions;   

One lovely girl, a song of Mahler’s.   

Lacking a source-book or promotions,   

I showed one child the colors of   

A luna moth and how to love.

I taught myself to name my name,

To bark back, loosen love and crying;   

To ease my woman so she came,   

To ease an old man who was dying.   

I have not learned how often I

Can win, can love, but choose to die.

I have not learned there is a lie

Love shall be blonder, slimmer, younger;   

That my equivocating eye

Loves only by my body’s hunger;

That I have forces, true to feel,

Or that the lovely world is real.

While scholars speak authority

And wear their ulcers on their sleeves,   

My eyes in spectacles shall see

These trees procure and spend their leaves.   

There is a value underneath

The gold and silver in my teeth.

Though trees turn bare and girls turn wives,   

We shall afford our costly seasons;

There is a gentleness survives

That will outspeak and has its reasons.   

There is a loveliness exists,

Preserves us, not for specialists.