Thursday, April 27, 2017

Thank You, April



April, I am starved for light,

bring a little, please,
to the window

where I can see summer
lolling about the hills afar off.

Ah, yes, I see her now,
shoeless in leaves of grass,
picking blackberries,
Sonnet 18 nearing couplet.

April, you’re a long way from summer,
but at least I can see her from here.


© 2017 Jennifer Wagner


“Distinctive realms appear to us when we look and hear by poem-light.” - Jane Hirshfield, Ten Windows.  Happy Poetry Month with appreciation to poems by Sandburg, Heaney and Shakespeare.  

13 comments:

Jody Lee Collins said...

It may not be warm but we DO have all this daylight. It fills me with hope.

Anonymous said...

Summer was my season too...

Wendy Bourke said...

I love poems that personify time and seasons - and you have done that beautifully here. A stunning little poem with wonderfully sketched images. I am truly in that - summer-can't-get-here-fast-enough - head space and thoroughly enjoyed this. Smiles.

Claudia said...

you won't believe it but we had even snow here last week - spring and summer though will come eventually - i so need need some sun as well...

Magyar said...

Ah, the sense of a season, so well seen, Jennifer.
__ Winter can be cumbersome here, but Spring, Summer and Fall, bring different magic into every imagination. _m

Justin Lamb said...

Yes, sun please! I like how you wrote this, kind of playful but sincere.

ayala said...

Soon...soon..sigh.

grapeling said...

May your tomorrow be bright :) ~

janetld said...

This is gorgeous and brilliant…and I love how you open your poem!

brudberg said...

May is here, with all the light you might crave... actually I'm soon hungry for night

Fireblossom said...

That's lovely.

Sandy said...

Just found your page, and I am loving it already.
Spring comes slowly here in Maine, but I am sure we enjoy it more because of that.

Sok Sareth said...

I love all the sounds, such as "Sand shifts this brittle, black driftwood mood." And I love the surprising shift to the beautiful last part. The perfect poems for a mother, I suspect: wing tips etched by her sanderlings.

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