The Ledger Of April ​ Poem by Haritha Haritha

​A shorter piece on growth and new beginnings.
​Buds break the soil like a sudden thought,
Writing green lines on a wintered page.
The air is sharp, a crisp reminder
That beauty belongs to every age.
​We count the blossoms, not the frosts,
In this brief season of become;
Where every petal is a silent beat
In the garden's waking drum.The sun, a lender of golden light,
Audits the shadows the branches cast,
Finding the profit in every sprout
That rose from the wreckage of the past.
​We trade the heavy, wool-lined coats
For the weightless scent of damp, dark earth,
Negotiating with the thawing wind
For the precise value of a rebirth.
​Beneath the surface, the work is done—
A quiet commerce of rain and root,
Preparing the branches to hold the weight
Of tomorrow's heavy, ripening fruit.