Poem for April 2nd

It’s all an Allusion


each April

the poet that pieces together

a hard scrabble life

in the deepest cave of my soul

stops casting shadows on the wall

and dreams for the slightest moment

of Chaucer penning those first words

“Whan that Aprill, with his shoures soote”

wondering if ol’ Geoffrey figured those lines

wouldn’t be washed away

after 600 years of April showers



for the bravest millisecond

If each of us doesn’t in fact

have a tale to spin

a pilgrimage to sojourn

and daring himself

in this cruellest of months

to step out of the cave

into this upside down

wasteland of a world

and weave his part

of our story