Instructions in Anticipation of April
You swear Spring will never come, and then she does. She does,
and you are made a liar.
Lovely lady of waking. I know her; good God, I think
I know her. A knight, armor etched with mountain-laurel,
dogwood, blazing stars.
She’s a good shot, that one, she strikes true. Having turned your back,
you’ll feel bright arrows burying blossoming deep into your shoulder.
Her bow is new, she’s showing off.
She’s teasing, you fool.
So what to do? Now that you’re a liar, and a bleeding one at that.
I’d suggest the following: lie (on the wild grass) and bleed for her.
Lie and grin for her. Then rise and seek a clear cool lake.
Are you healed? Are you diving yet?
This is abstraction. This is tentative pseudo-epiphany. Here’s it simply put:
April will drag us both back out to the garden. She loves us.
I love you. I hope for the return.
Lauren Mills is a creative writing student at Dartmouth College but ultimately aspires to be a goat farmer isolated from society.