SAPPHICS FOR APRIL
“April is the cruelest month,” the poet
says. But then what’s March, or the other ten, one
wonders? Every month is a moon of mourning,
Born in May, I dread it when April’s over.
Here’s another birthday I try finessing.
Then comes June beginning the days of summer --
maybe it doesn’t.
Graduation into the world of working:
fear and trembling for many, but for others
it is time to enter the Golden Years of
Ah! July! The twittering birdies sing you
songs of desuetudinous boredom, or you’re
captive in your cubicle while the sun shines
elsewhere for others.
August and July -- they are sure to taunt you
with vacations over before they’ve started;
then September tells you to settle into
fall for the long haul.
Here’s October, skeletons in one’s closet
open doors and warn you that here comes weather
stalking through November’s perfidious notions.
plunges into winter and bleak December.
Holidays depress us and make us wish for
anything besides these unending carols
dunning our eardrums
in between advertisements. Here comes snowfall --
melancholy buries us in the thermal
January nightmare. And when we look for
respite from whiteness,
February blows us the kiss of madness:
March debouches into the muddy season.
After this “the cruellest month” continues
Every month’s the cruelest of the dozen,
one way or another. The wheel goes spinning
down the universe till at last we’re flung off
into the silence.