A Wish For April
Your song resists the lyrics mine proclaims
by measured whispers begging Autumn’s reign
not drown this season with unreasoned pain
nor hobble Winter leaving April lame.
Just as the wick betrayed by yellow flame;
I feel a waning candle nearly slain;
reduced to nothing but a hopeless stain
in empty darkness where the strained are tamed.
And though the morning sun surrenders red
upon an apple by the skylark’s song -
don’t shadows lengthen as they glide along
until once more the naked fall is dead?
Such are the mournful notes my lips undress,
while wishing yours on mine again would press.
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