We don’t need April 
to tell us we’re fools. 
We do that ourselves 
every time we trust the wrong hunch, 
laugh at the wrong moment, 
or walk into the day 
with our shoelaces untied 
and our certainty tied too tight. 

We’re fools 
when we love too loudly, 
when we hope too early, 
when we mistake a coincidence 
for a sign 
and a sign 
for a guarantee. 

We’re fools 
when we think we’re above it all, 
when we think we’re the only ones 
who see the strings, 
when we forget 
that everyone else 
is improvising too. 

And honestly, 
it’s not the worst thing. 
There’s a kind of grace 
in being wrong with conviction, 
in stumbling forward 
with pockets full of half‑formed plans 
and a heart that hasn’t learned 
to be cautious. 

We don’t need April. 
We’re year‑round creatures of misstep, 
beautiful in our clumsiness, 
ridiculous in our sincerity, 
trying to navigate a world 
that keeps changing the rules 
just when we think 
we’ve learned them. 

And maybe that’s the jokep;
not that we fall, 
but that we keep getting up 
as if the universe 
might applaud this time.