April.

Dirty rain

Upon the feathers;

it is April,

Among the years broken in winter

When it was not winter,

And we could not have been alone;

This is where we dream

And it is where we no longer relent

In sorrow and regret;

The teeming of ice chips

Beneath our feet—moved like blood,

We occlude the protest;

Mother Nature’s hymn

Is the birdsong when silence descends…

(Escaped upon ancient ruins)

The blood at your feet,

There will be no hyacinths for us

Among the yellow-lit roads…

In abandoned cities,

Not first or last,

In figments of papaya seeds

In our hands as we pass

The undergrowth at morning.

© 2020 lucysworks.com All Rights Reserved.



Categories: Poetry

Tags: , , , , , , , , ,

22 replies

  1. Such a beautiful and powerful poem Lucy
    “The blood at your feet,
    There will be no hyacinths for us
    Among the yellow-lit roads..”

    Liked by 2 people

  2. Nice poem. I think it’s the perfect description of Spring. It starts off so dirty, but at the same time, leaves glimmer of the green days coming. #OnItsWay

    Liked by 2 people

  3. Nice poem. I love this line:
    Mother Nature’s hymn
    Is the birdsong when silence descends

    Liked by 2 people

  4. WOW, you have a powerful gift/pen, Lucy.

    Liked by 1 person

  5. Reblogged this on By the Mighty Mumford and commented:

    ISN’T IT DELIGHTFULLY DEEP? ❤

    Liked by 1 person

  6. Absolutely Marvelous Poetry, Friend! Keep up the great work!

    Liked by 1 person

  7. great blog friend, excellent poems.

    Liked by 1 person

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