"April" by J.R. Solonche

Looking in the mirror this morning
while I was shaving,
I paused with the electric razor on my cheek,
the razor still gnashing the cheek-skin,
and I asked myself, "Solonche, are you supposed
to see anything in the mirror besides your face?"
Then that question led to another question,
which was, "Solonche, is the mirror
supposed to be a window or a door?"
Then that question led to another question,
which was, "Solonche, are you supposed to see
your father through the window
or through the door the mirror
is supposed to be, and is your father sitting
at the kitchen table, silently threatening to die?"
Then that question led to another question,
which was, "Solonche, are you supposed to see
yourself as a boy through the window or the door,
the boy you were many years ago, sitting at
the kitchen table, silently threatening to live?"
Then that question led to another,
which was, "Solonche, are you now supposed
to see yourself as an old man many but not many
years from now, silently threatening to die?"
Then that question led to, "Solonche,
are you supposed to see yourself as dead,
no longer anyone, but only the cheek-bone
beneath the cheek-skin beneath the cheek-stubble
you are shaving?" Then that question led
to no other questions, for there were no others,
so I finished shaving without answering
these questions, and I went out
this fine, first week of April morning
and I saw, there on the front lawn,
the wild cherry tree,
and the wild cherry tree was in full bloom,
the wild cherry tree was a cumulus cloud
of white cherry blossoms,
the wild cherry tree was half the sky and half
the earth, and an answer bloomed,
an answer like a white cumulus cloud
filled half of my mind, and the answer was,
"Yes, the wild cherry tree in full bloom!"
and another answer bloomed like a white
cumulus cloud and filled half of my mind,
and it was, "No, the wild cherry tree in full bloom!"