Another poem in the series “Light Year,” examining the qualities of light in each month of the year.
There are only two seasons in the North Country
winter and not-winter. April was cruel as usual,
arbitrary, fickle, indecisive—unable to pick a side.
But May delivers what April only pretended to.
You drowse away through the dawn chorus,
but when you do rise it’s already full light,
so bright you squint out the kitchen window
waiting for the coffee to filter through.
What began as a yellow-green haze softening
the black outlines of the maple’s branches
has popped a green so lurid you would call it
“not found in nature” without the plain evidence.
And the air is a fresh rain-washed blue, so clear
the distant hills are sharp on the horizon.
A confection of cumulus dots the sky, still cool,
but on the short-sleeves side of cool, for once.
So you step out into the sweet scent of lilacs,
into the bee buzz and the hummingbird whirr
and lever your sluggish bones behind the wheel.
A little apple petal twister follows you down the road.