It is April

On to April and on schedule showers
come none too gently, and what's more remain
from early dawn until the evening hours.
It would be more correct to call it rain:
but nonetheless we seem to find the space
between downpours to take a little time,
and on our bicycles set out to chase
a dream of pan-like youth where all sign
of age described on limb or face or form
will, with effort and the smell of spring,
somehow reverse themselves, our grey hairs gone.
With new found energy, we do our thing.
Sadly, our efforts in the end are vain.
We never quite recapture youth again.

<<Return to poems