until the ache of april

, 
the poems gather small,
in tiny syllable soirees. 

on bar napkins and 
scribbled notebooks 
in parking lots far and 
near. dear diaries 
and journals 
in the dark. 

they’ve got their places,
but no traces of migration
toward the sun. no buzz 
of chaos and camaraderie,
community and the care
-free spill of phrase. 

until that dazzing april daze.   

and then
they’re pulled 
and culled 
and willed 
and wild, 
words 
piled 
high 
or 
stretched out long as filament string to hope’s horizon. 

surprising us with storm 
and sting, and everything 
our hearts have longed 
to say. solid in the way 
they ground us
in the why, 
confound us 
surround us 
,
           spilled loose
           as an inkblue
                          sky.

::
In April…well, you know.