spring | day 13/30 days of april poems

Bonjour, folks!! And Happy National Poetry Monthhhhh!!!! *leaps up and tosses flower petals because why not* I do hope y’all are doing fantastically and that your spring has been full of warm weather, strawberries, and delightful books! ^^ And of course, good poetry!

I, actually, was not aware that April was National Poetry Month till I saw this thing going around on Substacks and blogs where people were sharing a poem each day for the month of April. And as a budding poet myself, I thought, “Why not try my hand at this?”

Now, I am wretchedly late to this challenge. Very terribly so.

But I’ve been a tad absent from my blog recently, and I thought that this would be good practice for my poetry and also give some of y’all something to read!

So without further ado, I present to you all, a poem about spring. ^^ I hope y’all enjoy this poem!

“That is one good thing about this world…there are always sure to be more springs.” -L.M Montgomery, Anne of Avonlea

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There is a woman that I know
Her step is light, her voice is low,
As she waltzes through valley and vale,
Her song wakes those, sleeping in the dale,

Her song is sweet and her hair it falls
In locks of bright, golden curls,
And when she speaks, the frost falls,
And the flowers bloom, to answer her call,

Her dress is made of white silk
Her eyes are emerald green
She has a little, woven basket — filled with flowers, I think
And though her face is seldom seen,
It is young and fair, like the new-grown leaf.

Through winter’s snow and cold and storm,
In my little cottage I wait,
To hear her voice in the wind, so soft and warm,
And see that sprightly gait.

And at my doorstep she will stop,
And toss some flowers to me,
Poppies and bluebells, marigolds, peonies,
And for a while we will talk,
Of rain and wind and older days,
Of sun and sky and the sweet blue jays,
Oh, for a while we will talk,
Till onwards she must walk.

Her name she keeps to herself, but if you listen close,
To the blue jays, owls, doves, and crows,
All the birds that gaily sing,
Of a woman whom they call Spring.