April proves a month for lovers.
calm couples sitting in cafes, unaware
of those around them, watching, listening
to every word said by that special one.
April brings hope to such lovers, of
warmer days, joyful days of smiles and
inside jokes, the kind which irritate those
on the outside, but who cares?
April seems to jog the memory of youth,
of childhood, when spring days meant
bringing flowers to mum, flowers taken
from the edge of hedgerows, or even the
old neighbor's garden. She knew who picked
her tulips. April means the green blades will
call to the sky for growth, for fullness, and
the heart sings for newness in the air.
But, for some, April lies, and the mind reaches
back, back to some far away memory of love
and forgetfulness. When age settles into a
habit of acceptance, the soul either dies or
turns to rebirth. One make choices about the
past memories of love. One must move on, like
the river breaking out of ice and flowing daily
stronger to the south, singing of life and fertility.
As I move over the bridges, as I watch the
waters rise, and see the water birds returning to
old haunts, I stop and think of other waters, old
pools and even oceans, or seas which carry
memories out, out into unknown places far away.
April opens a door to life, but closes a door to past
hopes and dreams, as green shoots cannot bear lies
and unreality. Only the truth brings life, not deceit,
which only creates a false spring, without flowers,
without chicks, and the bubbling of the riverside.
