There is nothing quite like a warm April rain, droplets
trickling down the feverish skin of man the thermophile
exciting his nature, plucking at his heartstrings.
For his love of tepid rain is like his love of woman.
To him it is tender to the touch, a candid pleasantry
of nature, soothing to the skin – galling to the bone.
Nature has its way of deciding the temperature.
Principles of derivation exist in the quaint sanctum of man:
Bliss before beauty, beauty before all that remains.
An eloquent man is an elegant man. A man is good
for what he brings not for what he has brought.
The warm rain of April reminds him of this.
His candor is unrivaled, his courtesy unmatched
For the love of another is the propriety of man.
Without it he is soulless, a hollow image of matter.
The warm April rain reminds him that life still exists
and he himself is not gone but the world has its caveats:
The right has left, the back has gone forward, the down have risen –
All surface to lay claim to the environs of a new life.
A warm April rain leads man to believe that direction may change,
that light may irradiate the shadowy clamber of tomorrow
in hopes that we may climb, in hopes that we will not fall.
April rain descends down, goading us into a worthy plight.