April, Still the Cruelest Month

April trudges softly

Over frosted ground

Dressed cruelly in a parka

And a puffy coat.

I thought she would be warmer

But she places icy lips onto the pane

And stops the seeds until they will never root.

She has overstayed her welcome and

When she leaves it is in the dark, so swiftly

I don’t notice until my skin is baked by an unforgiving sun.

Come December I will long for her, my perfect April, 

Imagining her honeysuckle kisses and the warmth of her embrace.