Out of sight, out of my mind as the end of April brings up images of lions and lambs, trying to remember how the month began.  Magnolia, crab-apple, cherry trees are flushed with white, pink, and purple blossoms on their naked gray branches.  They reach their dendrites shamelessly to the sun in the azure sky as islands of white and black drift by overhead.  You can see and hear outlines of Persephone and the Dark Lord in their embrace from the gusts of wind surrounding those dark islands the same way the mariner can hear the breakers on the reef.  These zephyrs, dust devils, and jinn are outlined in petals of passion’s colors, soft on the cheek, riveting to the eye.  What will the Mayday bring?  Dances about the pole? Workers uniting? Laws being respected?  Or will those that have been waiting, sharpening their knives into a deadly gleam, burst forth to ravine across the blood red seas of war?

It is the month in which the carrion crow black against green, feathers akimbo, tussle in the grass together before they are seen bearing sticks for their nests in the trees.  It is the time when the syringa leaf out, but before the cones of lilac, amethyst, and white carry the hedges in to June and the heat of summer makes one lethargic.  The winter wheat has begun to sway in the breeze.  What snow that remains is almost lost in the purple haze gathering in the hills.  Treasure calls in the gullies, washes, and ravines.  A gentle nudge and the crystals are reveled.

So as the blue moon wains and the bull’s nostrils wander over his pastured herd, the gyre of ribbons dances away the last days of frost, attracting the numen to the coming new moon.  The chill that has allowed the walls of marble to be filled with laborer’s silver and be guarded by the lawyer’s laws may be dissolved in sour wine of our passions.  Perhaps in the lattice of the patterns of those streamers, weaved in the hands of the young we may divine the overseers who tempt those with gleaming knives with shiny silver, gold, and jewels.  We may bind the paymasters so that the labors-of-blood yield nothing but the sterile result of an empty belly.




About johnsmithiiimxiii

John Smith, IIMXIII is the avatar of an award winning poet, artist, etc. who still lives in the Palouse country of the Pacific NW. He has not received much notice with his prose . . . but as his avatar, I hope that he keeps plugging along.

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