Unsure of how to create the last poem of April (well, more or less), I pulled a random tarot card. Seven of wands.
The Day Before May Day
Before me, a serf wields a flowering stick,
half carrot, half bone. He does not look at me,
but at the ground next to my right foot. Between us,
more wands rise from a precipice. His world
is mostly sky. What feeds the branch he holds?
What is his purpose? Is he ready
to fight impediments, or
is he the impediment?
Maybe he’s yanked out an adolescent tree,
nipped it in bud. If so,
he’s got much work ahead.
They keep coming.
You are never the youngest for long.
I give up. go to the magic book
provided by U.S. Games.
“It is a card of valor.” “Six against one.”
No, I will pretend, against evidence,
they are an advancing morris side, ready
for a stick dance. They rise from death
up to this windy precipice
and though he meets them with fear,
they will teach him the old moves,
if not the old secrets.