I wake to a single whispered word: April.
I breathe, slowly inhaling the morning air.
wanting to savor its every molecule.
I hold it in my mouth for one still moment,
the word pulsing through me: April.
Then I exhale and rise to bright sunlight
and a robin’s egg sky. Golden trees,
lacy now with fat spring buds, sway
on the western hill. I pour coffee.
The neighboring birds arrive, eager
for their breakfast, the little ones chirping
their greetings. Beside the kitchen door
last night’s raindrops sparkle from the leaves
of the baby bleeding hearts, the whole spray
looking like a splendid work of art. I stand
admiring it , wrapped in a cloud of birdsong,
when I hear a whisper, soft as a breeze:
April.