What could April be
but a blemish, fingerprint,
crease, or point of reference
in this year’s kaleidoscope.
Nothing sacred.
Not what was expected;
a disappointment
much like a November
without the history
of a war-torn year. Weary.
Unwarranted. Colourless.
We should save mishaps
for later in the year, when,
better able, we dutifully
pad our memories with
shards of joy, fallacy,
jubilance even.
Not so April, less it offers,
even than March.
Of course, we suffered
through its odious showers,
what else could we sing about?
Only hope it seems.
We continue looking.
That which we are denied
must be postponed for
for May. Or for later.

04/30/2019                                   j.g.l.

APRIL IS POETRY MONTH
a point of reference