Each April brings its wild tune
untamed upon its breath,
where Spring time sets each note to song,
and sings till Fall forsakes its claim.
It's then
as Winter's shapeless form denotes,
November shades that chiming tune
to slow and muted verse,
restraining Autumn's rhyme
that Spring and Summer sang
so soon ago.
Now every pedal
previously played resigns,
the grass and blossomed boughs
recline below
the muffled groan that idly wanes,
recedes then drops
to octaves silent long and slow,
and only meek in aching sighs proceeds.
Surrounded deep within that binding hush,
no tree can sound
nor any flashing thrush.
Yet there beneath the dark December pall
a seed, a sea of such
reside and burrow,
sewn and stitched below the muffled groaning thrall
of Winter's whitened sigh
so lately blown.
And what at first resembled Spring time's tomb
in honest holds its hungry womb
with what there waits
beyond the cold and crooked croon
that clasped its call
and all its windows shut;
The breathing birth of April's wild song
that sunders every verse and muted tone
from each the waking hills
and branches long,
as every note is reaped
that Spring had sewn.
Surrounded deep
within that rhyming rush,
the trees resound with every flashing thrush.
