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Bluebells, a poem by Amy Genova

            (for Greta)

by Amy Genova
Every April someone suggests 24

Let’s meet on the 24th

My frontal lobes thicken

Bulb with 2 and 4
before I remember why

Your birthday, April 24th

Today, I walk through woods
masked in bluebells

No one planted them
They roll out by the hundreds
an undulating comet tail
I bend, stroke my hand
through their buds—
The brevity of bells
break over the forest floor
Twilight drizzled down and shattered
in blossoms
a mad clarity against lead sky

A singular tune—bluebells
low to ground
to grave

For an instant
I roll in their wave
Their delicate tongue
1000 songs—or maybe 24

Amy Genova
has been published in a number of journals: The Bad Shoe, 3Elements, R.E.A.L., Spry, etc. She also won the 2015 James Nash prize. She has strong ties to Indiana, having lived there and raised her family from 2000-2010. She now lives in Olympia, Washington, with her husband, dog and garden an hour and a half from her daughter and granddaughter. “Olympia is a beautiful place of rainbows, mountain, sea and forests. Also, broken hearts.”