I wish I could take my father’s hand.
Amble together through Spring’s annual spectacle.
He’d be one hundred three, the first Seder.
Moving to this town before I did.
Passing away before I settled nearby.
Departing on his ninety-seventh birthday.
So, this April stroll, fitting.
By turns, under fickle drizzles, sunny skies.
Admiring lindens, oaks, maples.
Unfurling leafy banners by the thousands.
After restful winter naps.
Or, flowering cherries, crabapples, plums.
Already sailing blossoms along gusty currents.
Assembling petal carpets along roadways, grass.
How about magnolias?
A favorite for the seed pods he collected.
Tended to on a windowsill.
Or dogwoods, like ones he cultivated years ago?
Blooming in flamboyant abundance.
While Viburnum bouquets perfume the air.
Making our passage regal.
Then, parades of flowers by our feet.
Though daffodils fading, tulips, lavender, yellow, red, stand.
Rows of heavenly chalices.
Grape hyacinths, irises spilling over in purples, yellows.
Phlox, violets, bushy clumps peeking through rocks.
Hosta lilies poking up in clustered stems.
One last tree before farewells.
The potted lemon, now outside, imbibing April breezes.
Popping buds to deliver fruits in December.
Once his to water, trim, fertilize.
Now my household, its steward.
If only wishes could come true,
how blissful I would be.
To watch the springtime world renew
in my father’s company.
Lynn Benjamin
April 22, 2024
