April's Gone

by Dale Neibaur, 1974

April's gone.

Thirty days ...

In thirty days you could raise Rome or

build a dream or

go twice around the world;

of course you'd have to go economy.

I didn't even go out of the valley.

I could have hitchhiked,

walked even.

It's not so far.

I talked a bit about it

but that was just so much wind.

I'm still here,

and I'll probably be here until I go to seed

or rot.

Heigh Ho for middle-aged mediocrity.

"File in at the wide gate, please;

The fields aren't to be walked on,

And picking the flowers is a capital offense."

April's gone.

All that time from the best of my life.

Should have been building memories,

Not burning bridges and

playing games.

Why is it I can make time

for term papers

but not for life?

Foolish of me.

I could make good resolutions, but

I'd only break them.

Seven hundred twenty hours . . .

Sneeze once and whewt! they're gone.

I've only that many left;

just barely enough time to mourn

all the opportunities I missed

In April.

[This poem was written on May 1, 1974. I was lying on the grass under a tree with a few fellow-members of the API* club, and it suddenly hit me that my high school graduation was only 30 days away.

Of course, now I've made it to 'middle-age mediocrity', and anyone unauthorized who plucks flowers from my garden is indeed worthy of death. Still I mourn all the Aprils that have fled...]

*API stood for "Advanced Placement Incomplete". Some of us were having a hard time finishing school work that spring. But we graduated anyway. And yes, I do believe in Santa Clause and the Story Princess.