in April

Standard

in April

the resurrection of flowers—the revival of birds—

the triumph of thawed fountains

 

repels the ice

that couldn’t understand the varied vibrancies of life—

the beauty in both daffodils and dandelions—that wore grey and snubbed color,

 

that stopped its ears at the piercing melody of the wren

and clapped its frozen hand across her beak, silencing her singing—

that preferred lonely empty howls of wind to songs of rejoicing—

 

that strangled streams with frigid bony fingers, stilling the surface,

never dreaming how strong the current beneath the shell might be,

for all it wanted was a shell of spring—a part but never the whole—

 

the ice that couldn’t understand

and wouldn’t even try—

 

but in April

 

the Sun exiles the hungry ice—for it has much to learn—

and coaxes flowers out of hiding, frees the fountains from their chains

and tells the bird she’s safe to raise her voice—aloud—again

 

and she who was enslaved to ice rejoices in the Sun—

the lifeblood of the flower and the heartbeat of the stream—

and lifts her voice to sing like she has never sung before

 

and ice is soon forgotten in the triumph of the Spring

that shatters winter’s slavery—awakens liberty—

the day of death is over—life eternal dawns anew

 

in April

 

 

 

 

 (Incidentally–it is 8 months until Christmas. Have you finished your shopping?)

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One response »

  1. A certain Poetry Writing professor should be very pleased with at least one success story right about now. 🙂

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