April Snow
Russell Rowland
Rowland Page 1

No accumulation, though.
Earth is throwing the covers back;
done, the nap.

Pavement heaves, vaults crack.
Flakes touch, then disappear.
No chickadee even wipes its feet.

Flakes sizzle on the ardent skin
of frogs, now clattering in the swamp.
Celibacy's not for them.

The hour is near when bulls
won't consult a lady's wishes;
tadpoles teem like sperm.

In town, a gentleman's gonads
squish around inside his drawers.
This makes him want all he knows


he cannot have. True gentlemen
go outside and rake the lawn --
tine lines on snow.

Accumulation, no.
Neighbor kids' snowman is
their last, their least.

He hasn't long to live, he sweats.
No one attends but a passing dog,
who colors him jaundiced.


Russell Rowland lives in New Hampshire.