To what purpose, April, do you return again?
Beauty is not enough.
You can no longer quiet me with the redress
Of little leaves opening stickily.
I know what I know.
The sun is hot on my neck as I observe
The spikes of the crocus.
The smell of the earth is good.
It is apparent that there is no death.
But what does that signify?
Not only under ground are the brains of men
Eaten by maggots.
Life in itself
Is nothing
As an empty cup, a flight of uncarpeted stairs,
It is not enough that yearly, down this hill,
April
Comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers.
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Leonard Durso 
One of my favorites. Her work was the reason I became a poet. “April comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers.” Oh, so, so good!!
Yes, she is. My favorite: Dirge Without Music.
Mine are numerous: Recuerdo, Humoresque, The Betrothal. I still can recite The Ballad of the Harp Weaver from memory. Learned it in high school. Magical realism before that’s what it was called.
I’m impressed.