April was sour at expectation peak
To have made me to harvest the springing bouquet,
The little ones would have none to place
Amid hair strands. Not breath purpose,
But on the mass where the name engraved
To bring to admonition each day
That Nature was hardest to me.
I should not be glad
When the sitting dust is perturbed to dance
When it first drizzles.
But, do you lie in earnest expectation
That I make replacement daily the petals
In retrospect that I am widowed; that those
Whose noise seizes and snaps the coach
Of thought, orphan; that I must keep to this
Material dried in bleach for the season;
That brooding arrest the pleasures
In swift spells? In earnest I speak
The sweetest words are your descent.
The earth of memory is large
Insolvency could not be known; the reason
It should not be overlooked at your setting.
My mother should have known in wisdom
Given me the old dispensation of its manual
And I should have drugged this and be
But unaware in the influence. You know well
That the chores of life alofts the onehandedly,
Not even when the mouths are much and tender.
And you let the fruit of prime
Be the hardest nut to crack, night