April


In April one is never sure
which bud will burst, the bloom de jour,

which rain will rain, which sun will shine, which perfume curling from the vine,
which shade of emerald, gold, or red, which bulb that’s risen from the dead,

which gosling primping for the sun, which bush is clothed that never spun,
which fledgling tumbled from the nest, which suckling shrilling for the breast,

which mottled sky or gilded mist, which blizzard late or solar kiss,
which weather whether thick or thin, this month so restless in its skin—

in April nothing lasts for long, the songbird learns another song,
the worm that slinks up from the soil, the early bird that wins the spoils,

the one that lives, the one that dies, the tadpole fins, the young bird flies,
unfurling leaf, upthrusting shoot, a sapling rearing from the root,

firm horseflesh rippling under fingers,
the schoolgirl brash who strokes and lingers,

a codger kneeling trowel in hand,
his love co-mingled with the land.





Richard Schiffman is an environmental journalist, poet and author of two biographies. His poems have been published in Alaska Quarterly, New Ohio Review, Christian Science Monitor, The New York Times, Writer’s Almanac, This American Life in Poetry, Verse Daily and other publications. His first poetry collection What the Dust Doesn't Know was published in 2017 by Salmon Poetry.