April gets a bad rap

The lush young flesh pot
Of a season starts in 
March's shadow, answers 
To the call of the rain
Filling the soil with a
Promise of budding new
Sprouts and blossoming
Flowers, brightening in
The sun's light, touched
By its warmth and by its
Brilliance. It's April
When hopes rise and buds
Bud, April so intense it
Scares the poet into a
Reverie over power and 
Longing, into accusations
Of cruelty and need. April,
The gentle month, ushers
In summer's tranquil ease