End of April by the Cuyahoga River near Peninsula

 

Dogwood white splatters
the hedges of the woods,

and small violets of April too
have come along the trails

to tally up the palette,

so that, as if by some tacit plan,
or by communion, female hands

ache likewise to change and paint,

along with the dispatch of scent,
set once more to form

another embossing spell.

For April is a month that’s amical
to welcoming again such wordless,

obliquely urging ornament

which brings the season underway.

For April is an aperture—
un trou, une ouverture à Aphrilis,

a budding urging, swelling into spills.

Yet it makes me wonder how low and close
to earth,

parallel to the red of cardinals in flight,

those discreet violets
hold their purple flame—