Only crumbs in the cookie jar.
And the ice cream carton rests
Limp and exhausted in the trash.
April is nearly finished,
But poetry endures forever.
My children have grown up and moved out,
Their shouts and play are mere echos
Until grandchildren come bounding in.
But poetry lines my shelves,
In the corners of my emotions,
Swirls me about in rhythmic strands,
Delights me in solitude.
Sweet on my tongue,
Yes, April is fading.
Poetry endures forever.