April arrives with far too much energy,
A month that smells of grass and plans.
The hooman says, “It’s finally spring,”
Then sneezes twice and wipes their hands.
The windows open wider now,
The air rolls in, both fresh and loud.
It smells like earth, like rain, like wow,
Like something hopeful, slightly proud.
The garden hums with busy cheer,
The blooms have clearly all agreed.
To show off early, bright and near,
With colors no one said they need.
The hooman walks with sudden pace,
As if inspired by light alone.
They trim the grass with serious face,
Then stand and stare at what they’ve grown.
The mower roars, the scent explodes,
Fresh cut green fills every room.
The hooman breathes it in like codes,
Like grass has solved their sense of doom.
I sit and watch from window throne,
This is my season, sharp and clear.
The world outside is overgrown,
With birds again who have no fear.
They hop too close. They chirp too loud.
They act like I am not a threat.
I twitch once more, composed yet proud,
This insult I will not forget.
Then comes the day of colored things,
The hooman whispers, “Easter time.”
They hide small eggs like secret kings,
In places I would call a crime.
The garden fills with smaller hoomans,
Running wild with sugar speed.
They shriek, they trip, they shout like humans,
Who have misplaced their sense of need.
They search for eggs I already saw,
Poor creatures, slow and unaware.
I track each move with silent law,
A master mind, observing there.
One egg rolls near the garden bed,
I tap it once, just to confirm.
It does not squeak, it is not dead,
It holds no interest to a firm.
The hooman laughs and calls my name,
“Erik, don’t touch,” as if I would.
I step away, above the game,
Misunderstood, but still quite good.
The sun grows warmer on the floor,
It stretches long across my space.
I follow light from door to door,
A sacred path I daily trace.
April is noise and bloom and smell,
Too much of everything at once.
The hooman says, “It feels so well,”
Then forgets their tea for months.
The birds, the bees, the children too,
All seem convinced this joy must last.
I blink and stretch and change my view,
Spring always moves a little fast.
By evening calm returns once more,
The eggs are gone, the garden rests.
The hooman sighs, their feet are sore,
They call the day a full success.
I take my place upon the sill,
The air now soft, the light now low.
April may rush, but I am still,
And I will watch it come and go.
For every bloom and every sound,
Each careless step, each cheerful spree,
Is simply life all overground,
Performing loudly… just for me.
© Oh Erik 2026 – Sarah-Leigh Wills.