Linda Umans

The volunteer tulip folds in the dew, I think I’ll call you April.
Daffodils budding going for gold about to trumpet April. 

I can still see the hawks in the branches of trees
hear the cardinal hop on the wire chirping April. 

On the chickadee’s head the brilliant black cap 
is so sharp in the mist, a visual portrait of April. 

Lovely lawn pools of pine in the Showers of song
that someone preceded me in titling April. 

Oh, Lin, wait for summer. Spring is not yours.
You resemble too much moody April.


LINDA UMANS enjoyed a long teaching career in the New York City public schools. She is a native of Manhattan where she lives, studies, writes. Recent publications include poems in qarrtsiluni, Terrain.org, The Broome Street Review, Theodate, DIALOGIST, Switched-on Gutenberg, Composite {Arts Magazine}, Spillway, YB and pieces in Mr. Beller's Neighborhood