Part of the practice of presence is teaching ourselves to observe the earth as she changes. I never noticed the end of April until I sought to write about her demise.
April's End
...the Root of the Wind is Water. - Emily Dickinson
Your hands soften as
you rest them on your
lap. The scent of boxwood & jasmine drift from your hair confusing air
laced with your lilac
& lavender. My winter
holds the single
odor of still trees.
Your breath carries
every color, reminding
me that I will die more
than once, each time reaching
for your scent
as if I might store it
on the back of my hand
to breathe again in October
long after the wind has buried
you
beneath the lake.
-Erie Chapman
