An Ode To April

An Ode To April


She is April, so wild and wistful,
Capricious from moment to moment,
A mystery to herself, ambivalent,
Yet warm with a secret inner sun,
She scarce displays for the day,
Seducing with soft kisses of sunlight,
Then spurning with sudden showers,
All those thrilling buds in bloom,
That sigh upon their verdant vines,
And seek to catch her wandering eye.


Flushed with fleeting passions,
Her pregnant winds seed the sky,
With storms that roll, romp and rush,
As wild with delight, fire bright,
Spring upon her lucent charger,
Clad in the armour of her ardour,
Leads the holy charge of life anew,
Into winters white barren womb,
To rescue from its tomb of sod,
Summer, still glittering in its gloom,


Her vernal virgins flirt and flutter,
Delicate in their pale petals,
Attendants at drab Autumns demise,
They grace each day divine,
Delivering poems in a myriad forms,
As new life gushes and gasps,
From the lips of newborn lambs
Who seek out their simple bliss,
In fields now free from ice and snow,
As black cats of scudding cloud,
Stalk the shining infant sun,
And whip their tails of rain and hail.


The daffodils in their frenzy,
Throw forth their fragile fronds,
Bursting into being as blazing stars,
Sublime reflections of the night,
Arising from the sacred mire,
As a rainbow crowns the sky,
Uniting earth with heaven,
Until modesty blushes at her nudity,
And greens anew the soil bare,
As in ecstasy April robes herself,
And makes herself more beautiful,
Than she has ever been before.