April-Thoughts

April-Thoughts

The coniferous are the least vociferous.
Your pines, larches, firs -- these know.
Winter's coming, we're staying the course.
The bravest cypresses were Vincent's.

January's going to freeze your sap
so shut your yap. That was the call
bellered by a redwood. A shiver
acquiescent shook needle to cone.

Dudes, when things get rough, drop.
The deciduous forest nodded, knocking a few
leaves free early. Someone will rake us.
In the meantime, think April-thoughts.

c. Ciprianowords, Inc. 2010

It Was The World

It Was The World

Mornings I would wait for them.
I never knew it then, but I did, I waited.
They had a way of arriving. Of staying --
He'd read the paper or a book.
She'd bury herself in a Harpers or New Yorker.
-- of making me feel young.

Feigning a chore I would lean forward
just to hear some of their talk.
Refill his coffee, her tea, slowly, to catch more of it.
Those words between them like dew on grass,
sunlight aslant.

A wayward blueberry on her lip once sat
and she smiled, unbeknownst. No napkin
but his finger, lifted it. Right then it was the world.
When his head bent slightly to the left,
so did mine, and I loved her too.

So, today, when the bell tinkled,
and I turned with two saucers in my hands
toward one man -- nothing more needed to be said.

c. Ciprianowords, Inc. 2010

Spilled

Spilled

Most of the morning I was in good spirits.
Smiling at times, talking to people, commending
them on their journey. So good to see you.
Nods. Warm hands in mine, the more aggrieved.

Rehearsing salient points of the eulogy.
Reminding the officiating minister of a program
adjustment, I turned into the room she was in.
She, my mother.

Cannot be reduced to a pronoun.
I did not know this yet, but as I rounded the edge
of the coffin, my eyes vomited everything
that I have ever been. Clear. Salty. And spilled.

c. Ciprianowords, Inc. 2010