This post is in honor of it being April. Here is a poem I wrote about a chilly spring day. I was walking in a meadow with Claire when we noticed a bird chirping but it almost seemed like a warbled buzzing. It is when I first leaned about Blue-winged Warblers. I hope you enjoy the poem!

Last Day of April

There were meadows bursting, fresh awake
and seeding, buzzed
as the honey bee warbles.
Blue-winged birds, like honey,
sap-stuck in thistle,
on the last day of April.
Cottonwood lagged, startled
spiked-brown, no fluff.
No fervor.

I told you to wait for June,
the sight of cotton squall
milk-dusting fields.
The first warm breeze,
a humid wind
that keeps us awake,
softens our skin and hair.

But you asked for me to stay,
to enjoy my life, chap-lipped,
and follow you down
the bramble-sided trail:
tunneled, dark and shaded.

At the bottom of the hill
Maples and Birch had fallen,
opened up the sky, choked the creek
and formed a new forest pond.
Moated and stuck.

No place to walk,
with time to sit perched,
legs-hanging free
from the sun-heated boulders,
to consider the beaver’s den.
Just as the meadow returns every spring,
pink wildflowers can turn yellow
and the berry bush leaves
to become a nest for swallows.