Poems about April

Procrastination
Will ultimately be the
Death of my sanity

A palm up and open
To the sky

The glass lip
Of a wicked bottle

Wheels that turn
Toward spring

Small things, small things
Such small things

Three cigarette butts at the end of the table, three more days and I hope you never come back
We're June in winter, and if that's true, you're Springtime too early
Came up too fast, pushed through the ground
And winter never left
Now all the flowers are dead and you can't bring them back

Fuck you.

Fuck you and your lazy Earl Grey voice
That never said a single true thing to me at all
And your bedroom window that filters light like you filter your thoughts
Keeping all the kind things in

I'm gasoline underfoot
Don't tread me onto your carpets
One drop of a match and I'll set the establishment on fire until they're burning in the capitol building

I'm burning in all capitals.
H E L P M E G O D D A M N I T I A M D Y I N G.

No one really reads these days

There is a half-moon, just a sliver,
Embedded in the flesh of my palm...
It follows me throughout the day, silently.
Even when it heals, the mark
Will remain, insidious...
The pain of it-- the shock,
The hurt of seeing you, seeing you
Seeing me, and watching as
You left.
That stays behind.
Bonfires and beers can't save the world,
But how I wish they could.

Velveteen butterflies sail into strawberry way, strike a pose against the meditative, sunny disposition of the coming May
Harlequin horseflies and Bumblebee jesters
Pear bloom ballet, Mayfly soloist, interpretive Ferns are quite dashing in the Alabama breeze, Wood Thrush dancers and Mourning Dove romantics cooing in the Honey Locust trees
Madame April's storybook of Springtide scenes
And fairytale dreams...

.
T
W wo w
O Li o
L p L
I s T i
P w o p
S L i s
T p s T
W T w w
O o o
L
I
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S

In the Garden there was a man
A quiet maker of boutonnieres
Whose sunflower grin stirred pollen.

In the Garden there was a bird
A hummingbird, a quiet maker of songs
Who steeped within his mirth, thirsty for more.

And now she tastes his flowers everywhere
As he weaves them into his lapel
That she might always flit home
Just below the crook of his smile
And just above his April heart.

She was the girl he watched
All through the winter
With her hair sprinkled with powdered sugar
Beneath the red and green
Of the holiday.

She was the girl who noticed him
Finally, when the sun melted the snow
Into running rivulets in the grass parks and forests
Along the edges of flower beds
And picnic blankets.

She was the girl who lured him in
With lips parted like a flower blossom
And hair like the April showers that pounded
The roof above their heads
As they cuddled til 3 am.

She was the girl who threw him out
When summer boys became an abundance
And he tumbled into the gutters with the dried weeds
And lay there all through the summer
Wondering where he went wrong.