To what purpose, April, do you return again? Beauty is not enough. You can no longer quiet me with the redness Of little leaves opening stickily. I know what I know. The sun is hot on my neck as I observe The spikes of the crocus. The smell of the earth is good. It is apparent that there is no death. But what does that signify? Not only under ground are the brains of men Eaten by maggots. Life in itself Is nothing, An empty cup, a flight of uncarpeted stairs. It is not enough that yearly, down this hill, April Comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers.
She arrives
sassy
brassy
blustering in
vulgar
radiant
overdressed
in freshly fallen
virginal white,
laughing at us
in our tattered winter weary bathrobes
sipping lukewarm coffee.
Bewildered.
A multitude of birds rejoice
excavating with
eager beaks
the seeds of
forgotten summer
sunflowers
and the bittersweet
wrinkled apples of last October
I set out last night, now
buried in her skirts.
Brilliant bitch,
welcome back
April First.
Lisa B. Martin
4 .1.2023
Star Prairie, Wisconsin
, down, down into the darkness of the grave
Gently they go, the beautiful, the tender, the kind;
Quietly they go, the intelligent, the witty, the brave.
I know. But I do not approve. And I am not resigned.