Almost April — there is a moment just before spring fully arrives,
when nothing seems to have changed,
and yet, everything has already begun.
Almost April
when crocuses,
aconites
speckle colors
on frigid earth,
and buried bulbs unfurl
their green fingers —
Somewhere
a cold cauldron sits
atop a flame,
warmth simmers:
imperceptible
as approaching dawn.
Almost morning:
when softest tones tiptoe
through purple darkness,
and wakening lark arises
in radiant song,
ruptures
daybreak deafness.
Almost laughter
— D. G. Vachal
This poem is from my collection
The Turning of Light
a book that follows the quiet unfolding
of the seasons within and around us.
If you’d like to explore the full collection:
The Turning of Light
Image (public domain): William J. Forsyth (American, 1854–1935), Crocuses, oil on canvas.
lilies, sparrows and grass 