April Song for August

Since it's spring again, the sun is at it again:
stripping all over the place all over the park.
It has untapped the keg and unfurled the licorice
and the minstrels. It's unfurled the blush,
people. It's blown the safe and looted the loot.
As for the old troubles, they're just laundry—
neither comic nor pathetic, neither news nor not.
That he says and she says. That the dogs mire
and the wells bite. That the handsome adolescents,
whom we've assembled, as well, and love,
as well, curse and smolder, just like other folks.
That we ourselves, for some odd reason,
clot and age so methodically. As for my daughter,
she's water, it's my job to keep her from spilling
over or out while she waddles along beside me
like a wild duck or a daisy or a dance,
since she really is a whole silliness of girl-babble
and blithe and founding and fleece. O child,
O delirious impossibility—bridge, dream, howl,
hitch—please come hear this meager salute.

Copyright © 2003 Adrian Blevins All rights reserved

from The Brass Girl Brouhaha
Ausable Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission