It is cold as anything this April day,
No snow, but winds do blow with rage enough.
Six days from now, begins the month of May,
But still folks huddle, say the going's rough.
What is it for? A trickster brought this down,
Such overcast and prospects nice of rain,
Frightening the sunbathers that stomp and frown,
Today - it freezes through the hair and brain.
Delight, where is delight? It speaks, this cup,
The coffee oscillates and talks to me,
Until it's finished and quite broken up,
Reduced to aftertaste of milk and honey.
Heroic sun, how standard are your tresses now,
Too short to warm free thinkers on their bough!