by Elizabeth Vignali
If it weren’t for the air frothed thick with lilacs
it would feel like August. The lawn under my bare feet
still warm from the sun, even beneath the moon’s round face.
It’s nearly one a.m., late for this morning girl,
but I couldn’t sleep with the laundry out and rain coming.
Even the clothespins mooring the sheets to the line
are warm to the touch, the heavy white towels rough-dried
and stiff as sails as they lift in the growing breeze.
The moon stirs in the wind like something
shining up from the bottom of the ocean.
It’s nearly nine a.m. in Ireland right now. An eight hour
difference between us, added to all the usual differences.
We are at opposite ends of what we tend toward:
you the ponderer of late nights, I the dawn riser.
The packer of lunches, hair braider, toast butterer.
But for now, the lunch eaters are sleeping. You
are waking up, or brewing coffee, or making love
to someone else. What a strange April this is.
The moon warm on my back. The scent of lilacs
so strong I feel them like hands on my shoulders.
ELIZABETH VIGNALI is an optician and writer in Bellingham, Washington. Her poems have appeared in various publications, including Willow Springs, Cincinnati Review, Tinderbox, Natural Bridge, and Nimrod. Her chapbook, Object Permanence, is available from Finishing Line Press.
Photo: “LA LUNA E LO STAGNO” by Paolo Cirmia