ODE TO APRIL
Nothing shy about you as you paint the skywith thick blue impasto, a gusto that’s
echoed in the blare of daffodils, their horn
section discordant in the wind. Which spins
the forsythia into a new way of dancing: jazz
hands. Jazz hands. A brass band
in every shade of gold. Who was it who told us
it couldn’t stay? But now hooray! for the lilacs,
their purple credenzas, the stanzas of violets
dotting the lawn. It’s a procession, the progression
of one flower after another, serial lovers to pluck
and discard. Winter was hard, the yard brown,
the garden bare. Along comes April,
with her one sweet song. And then, without
missing a beat, here comes May, with her ruffled
skirt, skimpy shirt, and columbines in her hair.
Barbara Crooker
