April shakes winter’s hollow limbs beyond the screen.
Poplar branches clatter and brittle in pieces
to lie shattered and sapless on the lane.
Shun the narcissus; its yellow coronas trumpet
the lie of resurrection. A lover you will never meet
passes by, his hair struck silver in the mounting sun.
His gaze points toward heaven. The red of his lips
goes forever unkissed. A mandolin laughs
from a window somewhere, a vibrating string
snaps to startle the ear.
©JP Reese 2010
First Published in Corium Magazine, December, 2010