08 Apr Poem for a Friday: In April, Age 3
IN APRIL, AGE 3
are sad? he asks. Mommy?
The daffodils are sick? He kneels
beside them in our tiny mud-green patch
of garden and with one finger lifts
each head in turn, tilting
every face—trumpet’s blare,
to meet the sun. There, he says. I fixed
them. He stands up. He brushes
the dirt from his hands. He says
They’re not sad anymore.
Already the daffodils’ slim necks
are bent again. Already, drunk
on the first light of spring,
they’re spilling it
over the ground.