April

April is for the lyrical, a national poetry month that descends like its rains and the colorful spiral that marks the days until Tim comes home again.

The phlox is bursting purple, lilac in a pillow of green lusciousness, and the pines are mating

leaving the toxic neon yellow remains of their love on sidewalks, cars, noses and windowsills.

Achoo!

To pass the minutes until Dad returns we prowl around with socks 

in our mouths, 

which is perfectly logical when you're one, 

yet mysteriously nonsensical 

to those who have crossed into the clutches of adulthood.

We peer into the world of the opposite gender, climbing towers, 

princess crowns, 

curtsied bows, 

pearl slippers and down 

filled carriage pillows, 

"ewwwing" appropriately, 

of course.  

And when that grows tiresome

we read Newsweek, competing, 

who can find the the word or image "Obama" the most?

And after a warm April rain we dig in the mud with yellow plastic shovels, 

tugging at worms

slimy, elusive accordions without bones that do not illicit 

the unanimous little boy, "Ewwww,"

but rather a bath

and cookies.