To wake each day expecting
to find a poem in it, like a treasure:
this is April.
The world is so wide open
And my heart is as big as the sea.
Poetry rises and falls ceaselessly within me,
Tumbling the words, softening the rough edges.
I once found a driftwood question mark on the beach,
and my mother used to keep a jar on the windowsill filled
with brightly colored glass, smooth
and polished by time and waves,
washed ashore when the time was right
(or thrown back to sea if it wasn’t).
These words have always been there, just
waiting for April.
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