Perhaps it's not as Elliot would have it
the cruelest of months
I'd save that moniker
for the dog days of August
at least out here in
what we call the West
where summer wildfires
have become perennial
a threat to homes and lives
and to the natural world
while smoke keeps us indoors
weeks at a time

But April for all that she brings
of flowering plums
dogwoods in bloom
and other spring delights
is bittersweet at best
though it's not clear
why that should be
perhaps it's no more than
a sweet nostalgia
for the springtime of our youth
a feeling I remember well
but can't revive
of unrestrained exhuberance
body and soul coming alive
along with all of nature
the sexual juices
stirring in plants and trees
in birds and squirrels
and in ourselves
as romance beckoned
from every newly leafed out
tree and bush
the quickening of youthful hearts
April was that
and for those moments
of simple joy and innocence
I would give much away
though not perhaps
the wisdom of hindsight
the years have brought