April 1

The snow is raking from
April skies
Composed of slate-bottomed texture-less clouds,
It is shearing the morning light with its
Tongue scratching edges
Cast down upon us by some merry prankster
On a less than creative day.
Uninspired
And truly unappreciated,
It neither coats the ground nor
Taunts the frog,
Cratering with silent percussive thuds
Rushing to a splosh
Delighting in a deviously conceived assault
On my selfish vernal dreams,
As if to demand my pointless surrender
And to stipulate a
“Let’s get this over with.”
Before sliding down the hoary horizon.