… back from my travels… I turn around and once again, it’s Almost April

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.  

by D. G. Vachal © 2012