Today's poem is by Christina Pugh


Early spring forsythia: the flowering
of the rod; wood resurrected in petals

unrelieved by leaves. Occasionally
I still mishear its name, forsythia,

for Cynthia, a girl given the regal
gift of yellow. The first blonde.

And when the April ice cream comes,
and men walk in shirtsleeves at noon

or stoop on weathered porches late at night...
how easy it is to speak as if you listened!

As if some local blossoming
might lure you back to this hemisphere;

but apostrophe's the supreme fiction,
as we learned. And I'd say anything.

Copyright © 2004 Christina Pugh All rights reserved
from Rotary
Word Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission

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