Is there a month better
For walking than this?
When the wind starts to blow,
And the sun starts to kiss
The mud into dirt
And the dirt into grass,
While the forgotten Winter
Tries hard to last
By clinging to trees
And forbidding their leaves
From sprouting just yet,
And you almost believe
He'll never let go.
But that's just when
The Spring hears your cry
And throws the shrill Winter
Back into the sky
And settles quite like
A comfortable cat
On his cushion and yawns,
And thinks, "That is that."
And it is: for though April
Is bipolar at best,
There's no doubt to the stroller
That Winter will rest,
For April has come,
And with it the Spring
To make itself felt
On all living things.
The frost like an itchy,
Uncomfortable sheet
Becomes a light dew,
Soft under the feet.
And the rains with their clouds
Reminiscent of cold
Fall gently and full
As if to scold
The dry, barren earth
For being so brown.
Let the skies open up!
Let the torrents come down!
For Spring never far
Behind Winter can be;
And so lovely April
Loves to remind me.
postscript
Today's poem as well as an entry (though a bit last-minute) to the Walking in April contest. Could any month be better for National Poetry Month? I think not!