posted on Apr, 9 2014 @ 04:42 PM
It's the fourth month of the year, the time when I begin to hear . . . sounds of activity.
Is something growing up through the soil over there ? Look, I can see it rise! A . . . surprise!
And green surrounds me and showers fall, do I care that summer calls ? No, not at all.
Because its April, and spring, and fresh,
Only the taxing I detest. The overage comes back to me, that I paid, like flowers from last year,
missed dearly by my soul, welcomed like an old friend unseen for too long.
It's hard to be wrong about April, when everything's right . . .about it.
Just sit with me in the wet grass and inhale slowly and deeply. Ahh, it is April.