A Poem for April

April Fools

We meander
in the sunlit air, dizzy
smiles on our faces.
We are drunkards
sidestepping the mud.

We bow down to all
messy newness, inhale
deeply what is still dank
around the edges
of the lawn.

The crocuses
strive to spear
themselves into
existence, claiming
that desire will not

be short-lived or futile.
But, like all things born,
this too, will end.
For now, we think
only of beginnings,

starts, potentials.
We forget death in honor
of spring. We tell ourselves
that April was made
for fools like us.

Lisa Vihos

crocuses

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