The April moon waxes.
Wild phlox spread pink over the hillside
catch the sun in a full embrace.
We too turn our faces to the sun
a warm caress on winter-pale skin
the air alight with scent . . .
. . . and the Algonquin can hear the creeks
run afresh in the Spring thaw
as they watch the shad swim upstream
to spawn their ancient ritual.
The lilacs are coming.
But wait, drink in the yellow glow of daffodils.
Sip the cherry red tulip.
Pass by the hyacinths on your way here.
Inhale their grape-ness.
Ever timeless, Spring surges forth
while pink moon hovers over all:
the earth, the sea, the tide
pulling us into the arms of May . . .
Monica Enders lives in Sag Harbor. This poem is part of a series about full moons and the Algonquin tribe.