April 6th (2001)


The arctic always greets us one more time
in April, pasting petals to concrete.
Replaying slaps of winter, we sublime
to cold without between, and every street
is blossom-plastered, every bark is damp,
the sky is an enclosing pewter dome.
Arising after dawn I need a lamp.
The creek is oil-spiked and capped with foam.

I seem to be alone enjoying storm.
My fellow citizens remain within
or bundle like it’s trouble staying warm,
but I’m outside and noticing my skin
adores this temperature. Today’s a dance
of winter, while the spring awaits its chance.

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