Alan: This one’s for my father, who died April 5, 2004.
As you lay dying, I was passing over
from the coast to Bangor and the interstate.
Fresh snow sugared the wooded hills
and a west wind gusted.
It had taken an hour, that morning,
to clear home, the car caught slantwise
across the spring-soft lane, the town
unwilling to tear its skin by plowing.
But now the road lay clean
and I was passing over, as you were,
and heading south, a weak sun
hurrying itself between dark squalls.
Nancy: April, neither here nor there, no longer winter and not quite spring.
April, At The Edge Of The Labrador Current
2 days of T shirts
and then a night comes down
so black cold
in the sky
thin fall of light
washes the north
tide grumbles on stone
your skin goes taut
while you watch