Happy National Poetry Month!
a handful of berries in the morning,
bitter then sweet in alternating grace.
they lie, smooth as pebbles, trembling slow.
these are the days that must happen to you,
and these are the fruits placed in front of us:
the chaff and Chaucer’s sentence al sooth.
you are you, neither Socrates nor Persephone.
you are the grinning totem, the lodestar.
so the sunlight falls across us in waves,
cleansing us for we expect nothing in particular,
tugging us nearer to the start of all things,
and nearer still to the stirring of branches above,
of wildflower yearning and velvet bees abuzz.
in the realm of sweetbitter, think not of me.