Early April
Helpless to the spinning world
around me…
-Rebecca
Marcus
The
cyclists can’t help seeming self-important
and
the daffodils can’t help interloping
on
the edges of dark gardens; the shaggy birches
can’t
help tending them in peeling robes
and
the purple crocuses can’t keep from clashing
with
the orange noise of birds; the spring
can’t
help its interruptions and the morning
can’t
help its illusion of beginning again
beginning,
and the wanderer can’t help
squandering
the dimes of her small fortune
or
wish the morning could be the first line
of
a drawing her daughter began again; what if
this
was our first day, Becky, and the bulb
of
the heart humming in frost all those months
came
up as you were riding by, the orange
birds
requesting your attention and the first light
falling
on your dark eyes, knowing it was good?
***
This Moment
A
neighbourhood.
At dusk.
Things are getting ready
to happen
out of sight.
Stars and moths.
And rinds slanting around fruit.
But not yet.
One tree is black.
One window is yellow as butter.
A woman leans down to catch a child
who has run into her arms
this moment.
Stars rise.
Moths flutter.
Apples sweeten in the dark.
Eavan Boland
At dusk.
Things are getting ready
to happen
out of sight.
Stars and moths.
And rinds slanting around fruit.
But not yet.
One tree is black.
One window is yellow as butter.
A woman leans down to catch a child
who has run into her arms
this moment.
Stars rise.
Moths flutter.
Apples sweeten in the dark.
Eavan Boland
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