We open March windows
not knowing if
bad air comes in
or goes out.

The long down hill
slants wind in our faces.
The spring breeze stirs
as we cycle aside the lock.
On the road home
our breath heavy,

The magnolia buds
break open
discarding gray husks
on the ground like field mice.
Flamingo pink blossoms
nod their heads
in the breeze.

The flamingos fall
soaked by April rain
a scented slippery carpet.
We cannot wash
away the stain.

When we breathe deeply in May,
what novel scent
is masked by lilacs?
Bluebells die of disappointment –
no fairies come to ring.

Kathryn Weidener is a professional storyteller and has been telling tales all her life. Her publishing credits include Schuylkill Valley Dispatches, arielchart.blogspot.com, US1, Hobby Farm Magazine, and Sandpaper. A BA degree in Communication also led her through careers in social work, accounting and ESOL tutoring. She currently resides in Princeton.

Facebook Comments