april

And still the mad magnificent herald Spring
assembles beauty from forgetfulness
with the wild trump of April:witchery
of sound and odour drives the wingless thing
man forth in the bright air...

If only we could touch
the things of this world
at their center, if we could only hear
tiny leaves of birch
struggling toward April,
then we would know.   

Loveliest of trees, the cherry now
Is hung with bloom along the bough,
And stands about the woodland ride
Wearing white for Eastertide.