April’s clock

how delicious the taste of the weave of the air
with its murmuring warmth
and echoing chill
how lipticklingly sweet
how incomplete
how promising, how sticky, how still

how fecund the fulcrum of this season’s seesaw
from celibate winter
towards summer’s open thighs
how tantalisingly light the green of the trees
how edible the blue of the skies

how elusively poignant spring’s clement increments
which permeate and aerate the blood of our veins
how quickly, how slowly
how horny, how holy
this tension of sun
and rain

how fertile the juices which percolate and undulate
through every fair creature, through each leaf and flower
how lazy the daisies embroidering my blanket
how timely this dandelion hour
how timely this dandelion hour