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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