We go to New Orleans in April,
for trombones and crawfish, for sun
on our faces, for the muddy curve
of the Mississippi as we ferry
from Algiers Point to the East Bank,
step off the boat with renewal in mind.
Jasmine peppers the air everywhere.
Persephone stepped out from a cleft
in the earth, shaking the cold of Hades
from her hair, and her mother Demeter
burst into joyful tears on her return,
the trumpet blast of her happiness
making the ground erupt with Virginia
bluebells, Dutchman’s breeches, the gold
of the wood poppy like polished brass.
Back home we leave suitcases at the front
door and go out back for the ritual
of our cellophane bees emerging
each spring from the shade garden,
peering from their ground nests
like Persephone blinking again
at the new world. A river of clarinets,
a drone made loud by their numbers,
they branch off to newly blossomed
maples, to mate, to pull the shoulders
of spring into focus. We head in.
There’s the laundry, the newspapers
and mail. Skokiaan comes on the speaker
and we dance in the sunroom, bees
bumping against the windows in time
with the snare. Their offspring vibrate
underground, ready to burst
their brood cells at the first sign of spring.
