Like the pinkish tulips, And the whitish daffodils, April blooms a spring From the snowflakes lingering Till March, on winter’s leaves. The spring sun, shy as a bride, Beams above the greenery Of nature’s groom. The reddish plants bathe, And don plush new cushions. The clouds congratulate The newly born photosynthesis, And offer a garland of sweets Crafted in April’s kitchen. Served hot, yet edible To those who sleep in shade And walk under sunrays. Sometimes, the young rain Sprinkles over spring’s sweat, And wipes her brow With a cloth woven of thunder. And when summer comes Glowing, and knocks on the door, Spring falls ill, and is tended By the remnants of motherly April.