April and Snow

Today in El Paso all the planes are asleep on the runway. The world

is in a delay. All the political consultants drinking whiskey keep

their heads down, lifting them only to look at the beautiful scarred

waitress who wears typewriter keys as a necklace. They jingle

when she brings them drinks. Outside the giant plate glass windows

the planes are completely covered in snow, it piles up on the wings.

I feel like a mountain of cell phone chargers. Each of the various

faiths of our various fathers keeps us only partly protected. I don’t

want to talk on the phone to an angel. At night before I go to sleep

I am already dreaming. Of coffee, of ancient generals, of the faces

of statues each of which has the eternal expression of one of my feelings.

I examine my feelings without feeling anything. I ride my blue bike

on the edge of the desert. I am president of this glass of water.

 

If you google poem, April snow, you will find a multitude of poets who took up pen at the indignation.  There is something profound about an April snow, the tenacity with which winter lingers, while our thoughts have already turned to green and growing things.  Weather does not often align with our thoughts.  I can be absolutely black on the bluest of blue sky days.  I checked all my fruit trees this week when it was over 80 degrees for four days in a row.   It looks like all survived both fauna and frost, patiently preparing for a bit more warmth to break out in bloom.  

 

 

Snow in April