Feral friends, the full moon of April is the Pink Moon. 

(If you squint) she takes a rosy hue as she comes into heat splitting sepals into rainbow minnows opalescent secrets into orbital bodies

freshwater clams, pumping hormones into sonic frog-bladders/inflatable toads, raspberry finchings swollen hips with underbelly blushes and

lights her pawpaw lanterns, breaks the day into pinkish splatters.

Go outside and get a little pink. It’s a good color on you. 

Jack Phillips

_{*An odd result of spending one’s life or most of it in the woods and always dreaming thereof is that it becomes easier to write in poems. And you are unlikely to find a complete sentence out there anyway, so you might as well just follow a snail or travel a web, wait for chewinks and chick-burs and a tikky-tick tree frog. Sometimes it comes as a simple line or maybe as haiku, sometimes a rush of images that shakes out into lines or splatters into prose. Write in a way so as not to be seen by others, rather in a way that helps you to see. When you read it, a reflection of your wildest self will appear.}

_{Photos: Dutchman’s breeches, Dicentra cucullaria (known to some poets as big-girl fancypants), in Fremont County, Iowa; wild prairie crabapple, Malus ioensis in Dallas County, Iowa by Jack Phillips. Bottom: pawpaw, Asimina triloba in Fremont County, Iowa by Robert Smith. This time of year, everything looks pink to me.}