At April's End

(a Rondeau)

 

At April’s end, once more I lift my pen

and search my heart for words I want to send

to you, my fellow denizens of the page,

whose verse could pick the lock of any cage

and set all inhibitions free again.

 

To you, who stoke the daily fires, tend

the hearth of inspiration as we blend

our voices, as we rejoice or weep or rage –

at April’s end, to you I lift my pen.

 

There are no minutes in the time I spend

in being, for the poems seem to wend

through warp and weft of each new day

until there is no difference between youth and age –

until what’s left is nothing but Amen

at April’s end.