'April is the loveliest month, breeding poems out of the dead land, mixing inspiration with desire, stirring bright roots with spring rain.' ~ Me, via T.S. Eliot
Yes, from here on in April is The Wonderland not The Wasteland. Apologies again T.S.Eliot - but I will never agree with your your depiction of April!
Today, I'm not going to do any of the NaPoWriMo site prompts. I just feel like I want to go with the flow of what's been tingling on my fingertips and nerve endings all day: the rush and verve and simultaneously, hesitant nervousness, of the beginning of a month full of poetry. The spontaneous overflow of what I've been feeling today - the joys of spring meeting the joys of poetry resisting the old lingering winter/writer's block hesitation.
So here goes:
So here goes:
First day fanfare: fervor and flighty
inspiration unfurls, petals galore.
Fine-tuned posies thrown at April's feet.
Odes and declarations of staggering
spring-infused sprite, lyrical bouquets
of unharnessed delight. April means alive,
means poetry, means spring.
Many more cop-outs, stage-fright
stunned gaping minds, pens wary
in hands, winter-wounded hearts timid.
Fallow fields needing to be reborn,
push and shove and bud bursting.
April means raw rebirth; means
harsh daylight, hibernation over.
Several times I wonder
which I am.
Poetry answers: fizzes in fingers,
dissolves doubt in effervescent pools.
Sunlight spins. Ideas glide. Gold wins.
April preens; the whole month ahead
a meadow of blooming flowers
fragrant with rhyme.