On Wednesday Morning in April

A poem by ME :)

I was originally planning on a book review for today. It’s already half written. But then on Wednesday, I walked to work, and as I did, I wrote a poem in my head. A strange occurrence as I haven’t written a poem since high school, when all was angsty and big and seemingly the end of the world. Happy to report that, to this date, the world has never yet ended when I thought it might.

Next week you’ll have my book review and this week, my poem!

On Wednesday Morning in April

I

There’s a cold ripple in the air,
But I’ll walk to work anyway,
Since the sun is out, and I get closer to it
As I wind my way eastward.

It will be warm later, when I chase the light back in the other direction.

Lovingly dragging his son to school,
A father remarks:
The crazy thing is that it’s 50 degrees right now, and it feels cold.
Two months ago, it was colder, and this would have felt warm.

Being somewhere right around the age of 9
His son doesn’t respond — he’s cold now.
But street dad, I’m grateful for
Your cliched but true perspective, your morning lesson in relativity.

How good it is to remember,
The things I scoff at — not quite good enough —
Would have been like a 50 degree day in February
To the self I used to be.

II

My old bodega guy says,
Long time. Where you been?
Which is, of course, immensely satisfying
As any New Yorker will tell you.

It’s nice to be known.

I reply with an old-friends smile,
Well, I moved…trailing off.
Maybe I expect him to thank me for stopping by.
Moved where? Out of the city?

I mumble through the embarrassment of admitting,
I am now four blocks north and four blocks west.
This place is on my way to work, or can be if I so choose.
Why don’t I still come here?

I like his attitude — the only fathomable excuse for my absence
Is full-blown relocation.
New city, new state, new continent?
I get the sweet sense that no distance could be far enough.

III

For two weeks, I’ve been taking pictures
Of flowers everywhere.
I walk down the street like a deranged
Tourist to springtime.

Oh my god, the earth makes colors like these?

Don’t worry, I also take a moment
To stop and stare with my eyes (not my phone).
Trying to burn the bopping, waving, fluttering
Flowers into my brain.

I’m reading Sally Mann, and she says
Photographs make us forget.
That may be true, but I’m still glad I have mine,
So I can tell you what I saw and know I’m getting it right.

There are pansies like puppies with velvety purple ears,
Petals on tall tulips curling out like pre-lacquered press-on fingernails,
Tiny grape hyacinth that look like blueberries or bubbled up fairy skirts,
Ranunculus in tissue paper bouquets, like August tomatoes, red, yellow and green.

IV

50 degrees is cold but it’s also
The perfect middle
On a 0 to 100 scale.

I’ve moved, but I can still get
An egg and cheese on a roll
From someone who recognizes my face.

I pull out my phone to take another picture.
A grouping of erect tulip stalks stripped bare,
Last week so brightly attired — so burning red,
They stopped me in my tracks.

The flowers are blooming
And dying at the same time.

On the screen is a text from my sister:
I am so so so happy right now.
Yes,
Life is beautiful.