April cleans her little home
and puts away the cold,
wet winds of irascible March.
She arranges new lambs
in the woolly fold.
She plants Easter lily bulbs in the loam
and throws away the moldy jams.
But there is in April something arch
that sweeps away the old
into a pitiless bin
and decorates with gray stones in lines
and culls out all the weeds
to remind knowing eyes
of Nature's designs
and the wages of sin.
For the gray there are no lies,
no hiding from her deeds.
April puts them in boxes of wood
and lays them in the cellar deep
where, centuries gone, they discreetly brood
and look, to all the world, asleep.
© Joseph Pedulla April 3,2017
Topic(s) of this poem: death, metaphor, old age , personification, spring
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.