“April is the cruellest month, breeding/ Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing/ Memory and desire, stirring/ Dull roots with spring rain.” —From T.S. Eliot’s The Waste Land
Just beyond my reach
in the highest branches,
tilted just enough for the sun
to catch the edge and cause
the tiny flower to wink, grasp
my attention, a late bloom
after a such a cruel winter,
a tiny gift of purple hues,
waiting just for me.
—C.L.Fisher, April 2021
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Poetic Meanderings 