spring thoughts to poetry as if poetry
needed a month or only a month.
One American poet (turned British) said April
is the cruelest month but we remaining
make it 30 poetic lines, some rhyming.
The ducks have paddled away and so
I can skip stones across the pond.
Tree leaves like mouse ears, April bulbs
above ground though nights are still cold.
My mood is all yellow and purple.
A sunny April day in late January.
A warming strong wind the past days
erased the remaining snow, dried the ground.
I took tea outside and read new poems.
Buds watching me chuckled over my joy.
Nothing so taxing about this Tax Day.
Breakfast and coffee, work, errands and driving
to dinner, wine, conversation and unexpected snow
on daffodils – welcome warm covers and sleep.