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The Verge of April
Green twigs drip late into the day,
birdsongs bloom from the windblown.
Soft are the veins that leach from new leaf.
Sweet the prodigal sap that seeps.
Earthworms salt and curl in the opulent swirl,
swell in the muddy and proclaiming.
Full are the snuggery wombs.
Full the burgeoning buds.
Fulsome the wellsprings,
the green hush of new awakenings.
Copyright ©
Eric Ashford
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