In April

Winter gone; like those burdens we shared as tears falling on satin cheeks, like bruises on the cherries of spring, are all gone. Windmills circle on the plains singing to the sky as we share our lines, and dreams in April. There is no Quixote. The rain comes sweet and gentle. Creatures gather to the songs of spring as we brush away the broken dust of winter, in April when we play beneath the sun. We emerge as poets, scribbling sentences in painted words of passion and melody as the singers croon of love and the birth of new dreams. The clouds of April bless us with their rain of rejuvenation, bringing forth the bounty of the earth before they vanish invisible. Dream with me.

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