Yes, April, TS Eliot was right about you. Of course, as my birth month, you know I still love you.
"APRIL is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
Winter kept us warm, covering
Earth in forgetful snow, feeding
A little life with dried tubers."
The cruelest month was winding down
still reveling in her schizophrenia of
icy rain and humid sun
ramping up her influence equally
on poets, philosophers and punsters.
Taking aim on her own child
who has loved her despite her irrationality
having learned survival skills
in the shadow of alcoholics
using verse as the shield against
cold words and cold winds.
Yet, unprepared for the new twist
of fate and body on the bricks of home,
a rising cloud of pain
amid the hyacinths and hostas
blurring the line between laughter and tears
with a plaster cast and a bright red nose.
©2017 Noreen Braman
