April
They have been up all night.
Yesterday: barren bushes,
empty beds, and just-budding trees.
This morning: a madness,
yellow forsythia bellow
from the churchyard
the dogwood is loud with stars
beneath the willow's golden mane
violets shout blue moons
and who can ignore the crocuses'
purple proclamations?
Will they rest?
Will we ever sleep again?
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