Dear April,
This is it.
when you’re gone, you’re gone.
I can not take time by the hand
and lead it wherever I want.
I can not dance with it–
a two-step, a waltz.
If we did dance
Time would lead.

Dear April,
Your chill found me in the attic,
tired and ragged brained
with my fingers round
the cat’s paws
counting the toes
I counted last year,
And the April before that.

Your chill won’t find me
after tomorrow,
just a frozen puddle thawed
trying to gain purchase
in the Spring–
amongst the flowers
I wrote out of existence,
on the street you washed clean
with rain.
Just another last day
where we define apocalypse
and give it a plural.

Dear April,
Your sparkling raindrops
fell as fine razors–
cut holes in the walls
of my chest
stealing glances of the inner
space of my rose gold heart,
Looked around inside like it’s
just a place to buy.

I believe you
when you say you’re still Winter
but next year,
you’ll have to try harder
to prove it