April

It must have rained, but I missed the storm
except the last flash of lightning as I walk out
into air that smells like it’s just been put through the wash.

I can hear the soft swishing of blossoms blown to the asphalt
like thousands of brooms sweeping the streets clean before my walk home,
and it reminds me of the sound of the broom on my parents' front porch.

I find myself watching the rise of white blooms that hang in the air, caught
by slight winds that carry the rich smells of mock orange and honeysuckle to my nose,
reminding me of cotton shirts in my mother’s closet hung up with her smell still on them.

All along the road husbands pull into driveways stirring up eddies of petals,
content with their lives, slinging dark jackets over their shoulders, hefting leather
briefcases as they walk from Jaguars into dinners and waiting wives.

My own straw bag weighs too much, tucked under my arm to keep it from falling,
and it pulls up my shirt to scrub at me like I am a dirty child called in for a bath.

My steps must look tired and heavy to the tan young women jogging past, babies
in streamlined strollers rolling so quietly they whisper like silk, startling me
when I hear a polite “’Scuse me” as they dash by, breathless and sweating.

They run on the side of the street, blowing flowers in front of their children who are
asleep, lulled by the sound of their mothers’ Sauconys on the pavement and the scent of
a hundred crushed petals swirling around their heads, giving them more soft dreams.

None of them watch the blossoms blowing past, silent and wonderful.
They miss the sound of their mothers sweeping the front porch.
They miss the pause and glide of the smallest things.

*Jillian Meyer currently lives in Roanoke, Virginia with her fiancee, writer C.L. Bledsoe. In addition to holding an editorial position at Ghoti Magazine (http://www.ghotimag.com), pursuing her M.F.A., and working part-time, she adamantly maintains that she is a poet. Her work has appeared most recently in Blue Collar Review and Phoebe.