There is something about Spring that impels me to write more bad poetry. OK, you've been warned. Incidentally, the November daffodils are in bloom although they may be covered with snow by morning.
April’s Allure
Eliot’s “cruellest month”
So careless of our hopes;
Suasive siren, trait’rous tease.
Sunny sev’ntys today
The morrow’s icy winds;
Unscrupled, tiresome minx.
Abundance coaxes blooms
Pettish frost withers buds;
Surrender to April's charms at peril to your soul.
Tantalizing witchery.
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