Months that lack for scented air,
for blossomed and contented air,
have pleasures of their own with their
bright ice, red leaves, and grilling-ware.
The scent is just a bonus
for the soul and for the nose.
Words that aren't poetry--
no language lavished lyrically--
give readers a variety
of plot and thought and inquiry.
But poetry's a bonus,
like an Aprilling of prose.