an April poem
by richibi
“Red April“ (1970)
_____
as March was a month of music for me,
specifically mostly Beethoven, with pop
but poignant love songs thrown in, for
pathos and corresponding agony,
surefire anti-depressants, April is
purportedly the month of poems
here’s one, to itself, the month of
showers, flowers, but also of
ephemerality, evanescence,
regeneration and change, according
to this poem
don’t throw your Aprils away, it
says, tend to them, they’re what,
for better or worse, we have
Richard
________________
April this year, not otherwise
Than April of a year ago,
Is full of whispers, full of sighs,
Of dazzling mud and dingy snow;
Hepaticas that pleased you so
Are here again, and butterflies.
There rings a hammering all day,
And shingles lie about the doors;
In orchards near and far away
The grey wood-pecker taps and bores;
The men are merry at their chores,
And children earnest at their play.
The larger streams run still and deep,
Noisy and swift the small brooks run
Among the mullein stalks the sheep
Go up the hillside in the sun,
Pensively,—only you are gone,
You that alone I cared to keep.
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