April

A poem I wrote in April of this year.

The host of spectral apple blossoms glowed

gold when we sat to eat our soup. Slowly,

slowly the hour of shadows approached,

and I split in two.

 

One slipped into the evening, to climb

the hill eclipsing the sun. She sat forever

next to the rapeseed, under the thumbnail

moon as the world turned violet.

 

The other remained in the growing gloom

of the living room with a family not her own.

They drank pear schnapps distilled by someone’s

dead grandmother in 2015.

 

But when night settles, I reside over the transient

blossoms from my turret and ask,

why would I want to be anywhere but where I am?