April, Again

The most brutal movie I ever saw
was time-lapse film of fruit in a dish,
all that tender ripeness caving in
on itself: the collapse of is into was.

When I glimpse my face in a mirror,
I remember a chipped colander
mounded with yellow cherries,
some rotting and some just dried.

Remarkable, all remarkable,
like this loose pebble in my palm,
its sparkle of mica, speck of lichen
thinking of nothing but cling, cling.

My fists are clusters of blossoms,
and inside them, the stone knuckles
with whatever of flesh will adhere,
adhering. Yes, I am old enough

to discuss April with a certain
earned authority: how pale petals
on the cherry tree guess nothing
about the hard pit.

Copyright © 2005 Penelope Scambly Schott All rights reserved
from Baiting the Void
Dream Horse Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission