April, our lady who opens the door
To plush green gardens on nature’s floor,
Predictable as the morn until the night,
Casting shadows, what a glorious sight,
Along the forests and budding trees,
Blowing kisses in a springtime breeze.
But sometimes she’s of capricious moods,
Unpredictable as winter’s sting concludes,
Sometimes hanging around for another round
Of snow piling up on the seasonal ground.
“April fool,” she laughs out loud,
From her place above the bamboozled crowd.