Don’t judge April
by her muddy shoes.
Earth requests her tears
to urge buds to blossom
for May’s Glory.
In her dappled
couture
of servitude
she weeps color
over winter’s corpse,
and takes joy in knowing
that although she is not
the queen of bouquets,
poets search each of her hours
for words to capture her voice.
Comments
over winter’s corpse"
Damn, I love that!
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