This is the season when days begin to lengthen, and spring bulbs wake from long gestation. This is the season for pruning trees, folding winter clothes, cleaning the clotted dust from window frames, listening for tiny signals for help. Glass panes shatter from schoolroom doors; and watercolored sunflowers dry above the heads of children cowering under tables. Soon, rows of blue-black irises cloaked in judges' robes border the yards; in the papers, news of a Good Friday funeral, for a newborn who lived only four hours.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
So lovely. And you have given a name to the dust I noticed yesterday on my window frames. Thank you for making poetry come alive in front of my eyes. I will never forget that now.
Thank you, Lynne!