In Early April

Sometimes in April
When the sky is a quilt of faded jeans
And azaleas stagger the roadside,
The mind slips far of
And sleeps in a cradle
Of guitar strings.

There, truant from time,
You feast, you drink
You swim the charmed rivers
Of early desire.

And when the moon shows its dogwood face
You dream of fairies and lovers
And feel the full sap of spring
Stirring every living thing.