Day 1

1.

The pastel finery

of tulips I planted only a day past

is white with April snow.

Telling them, "This is Mother Nature's fault --"

is useless,

like explaining to my cat, wearing the

Cone of Shame,

how it is for his own good. 

Both accuse me in silence, my involvement

more heinous with each passing second.

Outside, the magnolias are bursting forth.

They will be brown tomorrow

By winter's touch, burned,

but at least I'm not to blame.

------

2.

When I was ten, I followed you

to the edge of a golden wheat field. 

There are bees, you said, but they won't harm us

The fox hides from our footsteps in his den.

Diana, you wrote dreams

From such poor mediums as paper and ink: that was the true magic.

Your stories asked us to make sense from surrender.

If Tolkien was your hero, you were Tolkien doing the tango;

the only person allowed to give adverbs employment.

I loved you.

The words we sorely needed - innocence and hope and joy -

They will be missed.

The footsteps of deer in a tangled green wood;

not the roar of wheels, thundering down a grimly lit highway.