By: J. L. Lewis

April

The Sun climbs higher each day,
like a soldier taking a hill
one costly step at a time.
Almost shyly it tiptoes across the sky
as if somehow it lost its footing
in the nebulous clouds of December,
and needs to relearn the way.
Elegant Tulips garnish the square
and Bluebells grace the woodland floor,
having dreamt long enough
in the cold dark earth.
The ringing trill of the little Peepers,
and the Nightingale’s sweet refrain,
drift through windows open at last.
They weren’t alone in dreaming,
and their songs are not unshared.
Life gives way to itself each year,
as all is washed anew again
in the planter’s Month of Rain.
And though more of life
is behind me now,
then what remains ahead,
I, too, find myself renewed,
thinking less of what has been
and more of what could be.

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Variations

The starry night is rarely seen
beneath these city lights,
or echoes heard above
the restless clamor of its streets.
My city breathes an unsteady cadence,
and moves in dance out of step.
It searches without knowing
for something nameless.
You cannot put your finger on it,
and yet it is not beyond reach.
It’s very near and within our grasp,
as near as touch, as close as a smile.
I know a city of lowered eyes
for the eyes tell all and none would be exposed,
of ears waxed cold to voices unfamiliar.
As if we could find the answer
by never having looked,
or hear the common tempo of a heartbeat
by never listening to one.
Not one knows where you’re heading,
none of them where you’ve gone,
nobody knows what you’re doing,
nor all of the things you have done.
In ballet, a solo dance is called a variation.
It means to dance alone.
This hurried rhythm of these crowded streets
is belied by a quiet aloneness,
and we gather together
only to vanish
in the eyes of this city.