April is a thieving bitch.
April is the cowbird who kicked
sparrow eggs to a snake below.
Laid her own, abandoned them.
April stole my father.
April is a greedy bitch,
hungers for more. You ‘d
think warmth, waxing day
light would lift her mood,
but no, even clumps of pewter-
bottomed clouds bounce their round,
white bellies north, toward the lake,
sky so blue it looks fake. Fear.
I face that direction. Song sparrow’s
liquid serenade pierces my heart. I know
what is happening on that shore, right now.
I stand vigil.
April is kidnapping my friend
another fight lost to death.
April should display only forsythia froth,
daffodils’ band as they trumpet,
crocuses’ creeping purple, orange,
heads to the ground filled with sleep-drunk
honeybees warmed enough
to gather saffron.
Don’t die in winter.
The cold, the snow, heartlessness.
Come home in spring, some April
afternoon by an ice melted lake.
Don’t leave me to receive
your suitcase, your glasses smudged
as if just shoved in breast pocket.
One eyelash on their frame shatters
left-over shards of my heart.
My knees root me to the earth. Face north,
scattered tatters, fingers sift
a life remembered spread
before me on the asphalt.
I smear my face with mud and I weep.
Central New York Branch, NY