Stuffing a crow call in one ear and an unknown bird's in the other, lying on the warm cellar door out of the cool wind which I take small sparing bites of with three toes still wet from the pond's edge: April is so violent up here you hide in corners or, when in the woods, in swales and behind beech trees. Twenty years ago this April I offered my stupid heart up to this bloody voyage. It was near a marsh on a long walk. You can't get rid of those thousand pointless bottles of whiskey that you brought along. Last night after the poker game I read Obata's Li Po. He was no less a fool but adding those twenty thousand poems you come up with a god. There are patents on all the forms of cancer but still we praise god from whom or which all blessings flow: that an April exists, that a body lays itself down on a warm cellar door and remembers, drinks in birds and wind, whiskey, frog songs from the marsh, the little dooms hiding in the shadow of each fence post. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE ROOM OF MIRRORS by EDGAR LEE MASTERS THE BOOK OF THEL by WILLIAM BLAKE WHY I LOVE HER by ALEXANDER BROME THE CHURCH-PORCH by GEORGE HERBERT THE BRIDGE OF SIGHS by THOMAS HOOD RESIGNATION by HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW |