For Chaucer, TSE, and Annanya: An Amaltas Poem

Summer without the heat: just sunshine and glory
Every bunch dripping with molten gold, chandeliers
Lighting a delirious dance in some glad apsara’s story
I’ve read of many Aprils now, cruelest of months
Or sweetest, depending on your poet. My ears
Have become tuned to its many songs, a daily
Epiphany, you might say, when each small, mundane
Thing beckons you to its lay. April is the Amaltas month
Each poem an exploding bloom of the secrets of the day.


April is the [your poem here] month

Disastrous as it was, it happened in April

Insignificant as it seems, I saw it in April. Cool

As she always is, I met her in April; fun

As it is each time, this time it was done

In April; breathtaking as it appears in the mornings

This morning was a morning in April. Myth-making

Sense-waking voice-breaking choice taking

Tree-shaking leaf-raking only happens when every

Branch gifts a leaf in the pages of poetry that

Pile at your feet that you scatter with your

Pen in the verse-shattered sheet that is April.