It's April again and I think spring is really here. I was reminded of the April poem I wrote about a year ago. Since it's still National Poetry Month, here is the poem, called "Flirty April."
Today’s early-in-April sunshine
Has a determined adolescent strength—
The breeze ruffling the grass shakes its fists
like a freckle-faced sixth grade bully.
I claim nearly empty Long Beach as my own.
This mile-long spit of land and sand,
marsh grass and still brown tangles of thorny roses.
A flat-land farmer’s daughter who didn’t see
an ocean until I was twenty-three,
Far from my own adolescence, I welcome
This youthful day in fickle April.
As I walk the damp sand, I peel off my jacket,
tie it around my waist, push up my sleeves—
Come, Sun, pour your vitamin D into me.
I see, footprints in the sand--not sneaker prints—
bare, man-size footprints–paw prints too.
I look the length of the gently curved shore.
Who dared the chilly sand so early?
I do not see this “Friday”–the native, I surmise.
The tide reaches, then recedes reluctantly.
To my right, sun jewels flash on the water;
to my left, a wind-row of broken shells,
once stony homes to tiny globs of life.
I settle where I often pause to gaze
on the blue illusion we call horizon,
where sky and water only seem to meet
because we are small, our perspective limited
and they are vast, almost endless. I often
meditate on that metaphor, but not today.
Breezy fingers ruffle my hair inviting me to play.
April, child of early spring,
I will join your light-hearted game.
I pull off my sneakers and socks.
I’ll make another pair of prints.
Come, lapping water, kiss my feet.