Tuesday, April 06, 2010

NaPoWriMo 5

Forsythia


I’m tired of all this beauty—
forsythia blooming as if to apologize
for the long, hard winter.
Soon the kids will hide
behind the trees growing
along the fenceline.
They will hide and I will seek them
through the thin flush of color,
skinny arms and legs
transformed by laughter
in the numb drum of spring.
Those yellow branches
wave to me, call me to child’s play,
but something in me refuses
even when the wind knocks the buds
to the ground, without grace,
in the inexact language of April.

5 comments:

caroleesherwood said...

what a great twist on spring: not accepting its apologies! no matter how bright or tempting.

June Calender said...

I drove home a little while ago and saw forsythia everywhere so I googled "forysthia poem" After a charming "concrete" poem in the shape of a forsythia bush, I came to your blog. Your poem is not what I was thinking about but it is a lovely one, the more so for stating your own vision of spring.

Jessie Carty said...

such beautiful language in this one :) i especially love numb drum!

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Inkgirl said...

I love those last three lines;

'even when the wind knocks the buds
to the ground, without grace,
in the inexact language of April.'

Amazing poem.

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