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04/04/09 - (1)
Friends
This fourth day of April, so joyously warming, As glory-born as ever the botanical garden has seemed to me, Was a pristine flowering of preening fruit trees —
Redbuds, pears, crab-apples, quinces, cherries — Dappling my eyes, with dazzling pastel pinks and whites, Efflorescing, this one brief season, each year,
Before disappearing into the humdrum viridescence of summer... Tiny, delicate petals drifting through the air, on gentle breezes, Like confetti, snowflakes, angels in Renaissance paintings.
Tonight, while I sit by myself, in a quiet restaurant, Contemplating my time in that sublime time-out-of-time estate Akin to Eden's not-yet-inhabited garden,
My mind, heart, imagination — all my soul's senses — Yet apprehend the lingering essence of spring's benison, The legacy of unadulterated beauty it's left, in my keeping.
And as this day slips swiftly away, I weep silently, privately, Realizing it will never, in quite this way, come again, To make, of me and my solitude, friends.
04/04/09 - (1)
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