2017 : April

The Spring is seen from up above,
The Winter from below;
I couldn’t say just why this is,
I only know, it’s so.

The sunlight shone upon the door
That lead me to your room;
The day was bright, as I recall,
The fields were all abloom —
You greeted me with such a kiss
As few men ever get:
As your cat watched with interest our
Unfolding minuet.

The Spring is like a Mondrian,
The Winter like Van Gogh;
I couldn’t say just why this is,
I only know, it’s so.

We played a game of skipping-jacks
Upon your bedroom floor;
The stakes were high, the tactics low,
I lost my shirt, and more —
The sun came through the gauzy drapes,
And we could feel the breeze
That brought you to the April brink
And brought me to my knees.

The Winter’s like an ocelot,
The Spring, a calico —
I couldn’t say just why this is,
I only know, it’s so.

We drank the cup of many vines,
And savored every drop;
We then had tortes and eclairs, with
Some whipped cream on the top;
We used each part of both our tongues,
And fully knew each taste,
For April would be all there was;
We had no time to waste.

And when I tried to leave
You bade me stay, and took me in;
The cat was on the countertop,
And there was quite a din —
I think some dishes maybe fell,
And shattered in the sink;
Although I really couldn’t say,
And couldn’t really think.

The Spring is like an opening,
The Winter’s like a close,
Though we get lost in wondering
Where youth and passion goes —

But everytime is still the best
We’ll ever have, or know —
I couldn’t say just why this is,
I only know,
It’s so

Author: Owen Servant

Owen "Beleaguered" Servant (a/k/a Sibelius Russell) writes poetry mostly, with an occasional pause to have a seizure.

3 thoughts on “2017 : April”

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