April’s Fool

A curious dichotomy exists.

I wake again, but do I wake for spring

Or is it winter still? And am I full

Of dreams, or am I starving, ravenous?

Have the flowers of spring arrived, tra la,

Or is the salt enervated slush still here

To poison hopes? I wonder if the world

Is wakening or is it sleeping still?

And is it time to make a pilgrimage

Or time to huddle in my den again?

And will I find the man who sells balloons

To children in the park, or will I find

The lilacs breeding death—the perfumed air

Funereal instead of bringing joy?

And is the answer neither either or

But yes?

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