I could probably fill the entire month of April with poems by the lovely Naomi Shihab Nye (1952-), whose work continually comforts and delights me.
“Spruce Street, Berkeley”
If a street is named for a tree,
it is right that flowers
bloom purple and feel like cats,
that people are leaves drifting
downhill in morning fog.
Everyone came outside to see
the moon setting like a perfect
orange mouth tipped up to heaven.
Now the cars sleep against curbs.
If I write a letter,
how will I make it long enough?
There is a place to stand
where you can see so many lights
you forget you are one of them.