In April
surprised by any old thing
that should uproot itself
and subvert the winter
awakening to newness
from sleep
surprised each morning
I, too, awake
words– thrown away
by winds
souls– slaughtered
by hatchets
see—
but don’t see
my heart left me—
some night, long ago
I wonder why
in April
the daffodils
have anything to say
to me
© prasanta April 2017
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