April is the coolest month

The cold winter withers
My spirit and energy.
The summer hot is like
Being baked in a soufflé.

And old sister autumn,
Our treatise on lethargy,
She tears us from the trees;
Having died a bit too late.

But spring simply suffers
From papery prosody.
The poets on the scene
Have just far-too-much to say.

And cold busy April,
So awkwardly paralysed
Between the grisly words,
Neatly leads their rhymes astray.

These warm April showers
Pour lyrics and parables;
The crayons of the zealots,
Scribble all the live long day.

And I simply cannot
Wait -- patiently, constantly --
When summer heat will melt,
Creativity away!