Cold April! Capsulating thy arctic barren look!
Wilt thou wake, from this frigid winter slumber?
Hast thou e'er dressed, with summer's frilly hook?
Wilt thou finally warm, reject ice and snow, unencumber?

Silenced, so cold hearted, becomes thy wintry trend,
April's sultry spring, like naive Juliet, awash in icy moonlight,
Standing staid, conjuring, this budding love, where art to send?
Impatient May awaits! Redressed Romeo, arrest thy courtly night.

Wickedness strives to mend, sweet tender bust,
Depraved, out of wedlock, April's lusty horn,
Expects spring's leaving, such lofty lazy trust,
Still icy calm pens reprimand with frigid form.

What now Paris, lying bloodied in thy shallow grave?
Shall April's waxing period become the perfect storm?
Lax now, whence worms devour hidden secrets, so depraved,
Beneath black loam where April greets subsoil's cool norm.

Lest this balcony collapse, with the weight of spoken lines,
Behest rigid Paris, with spring's opulent second coming, awake,
Yet Juliet, imprisoned by life's poisoned blade, so refines,
Lest Romeo, fail to unsheath his sword, regret love words he spake.

What need is there for this cautious delirium?
Skipping pebbles, 'cross frosty rippled ponds,
Bouncing like days and months across hours emporium,
Entrancing rising sap, cherishing May's promised fronds.

Yet April, regret it's annual place, hope for placement in summer's heat,
What then would fair Verona vow, if spring replaced cool April's bow?
Would two households, dignified alike, amuse the play, rewrite spring's treat?
Would citizens applaud new acts, recourse such fate, amend this sacred now?

How now this violent nature? From February's slipp'ry grip to April's budding trip,
Spring's playful theme, love's yearly feud, this sensual sonnet of fourteen weeks,
Like icicles hanging glassy on a winters eve, like brash red willows sappy sip,
April's permutations, transforming acts, expressions a star-cross'd lover speaks.

Lovers meet, two seasons greet, a kiss, in April's chilly street,
Like natural death, organic birth, this painful month of spring,
Remorseful, aft a moment's strife, birth and death compete,
Desire! This ancient grudge, whence buried rage is nought to bring.

Capulets and Montagues, like two seasons, abate the blossom's rush,
Romeos and Juliets, like snow and rain, abrade life's lusty torso,
Two houses, address the moist and wet, abreast with spring's honest flush,
Whence the burly stage is set, the plays the thing, with April's primal morsel.