April’s Flower
Up a crunchy gravel road sits a remote farmhouse.
Pealing harbor blue paint is suggestive of advanced age.
I always find myself thinking the home is dilapidated
Like the Johnson’s house down our street.
The red, distressed kitchen table holds a domestic
bottle of wine, hence partaken. The translucent green
bottle holds flowers daily to alleviate space for red
geraniums. Today it holds daisies, bold, white as a
solitary glass of milk, a dab of sunshine in the middle.
The fortitude of April’s flower reminds me of my
daughter’s April birth, her life. The little life present in
this home, flowers and the steps of a fragile soul.
Leaving I think of mother and her red geraniums.
I think of my daughter that prevails like the daisy.
The crunch of the gravel lulls.