This April snow
is not cloud
laden
cold and wet,
it does not die
in a moist palm
nor cluster
in balls for
throwing.
This April snow
is a white cloud
on hawthorn
springing, soft
petalled,
deep as branches,
in the hedgerow.
This April snow
is a larder for
bees,
a playground for
butterfly
and a cure for
melancholy.
This April snow
drifts in the
breeze
confetti
for the marriage
of seasons.
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