April Poems and Memories

In his nonetheless wonderful work, "The Wasteland," T.S. Eliot began by maligning April, characterizing it in a manner I've never been able to accept:

April is the cruellest month, breeding

Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing

Memory and desire, stirring

Dull roots with spring rain.

For me, the spirit of change, the color, the textures, the brightness and breezes all suggest a spirit of hope and growth, the memories welcome, the desire a step toward something growthful and good.

So, sue me.

In that spirit, I offer a poem I wrote in which April, the kindest month, offered me its best.

Magill Road

In the time when every sentence

began with the word Mommy,

I spread the ABC quilt under the blooming cherry

in front of the house where I thought we'd live forever.

We snacked on graham teddy bears, my little ones and I.

I told them stories, sang with them, wiped their faces.

Then we lay back, looking up

at the flurry of falling pink petals, rich,

my arms full of cuddles and giggles.

   ~ Kate Lydon Varley