April

In the horizon
Where the sun mightily rose,
The landscape transposed.
Sunflowers, cockscombs, dahlias
Burned and glowed to rival the sun.
“These times are blessed,”
They say.
Let such pure beauty
Be still, let such pure beauty
Be eternity.
For nothing exists with more sense,
No time more tame,
No purpose more lucid or innocuous
Than April.





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