April

Passages in Weariness

It must be April. I slept in winter’s arms and woke up in hers. Cold air rushes in to fill the gap her dagger left. At least, there's air. I am waking up in a slush in the street.

Winter they say is defeated. She has retreated North and her foot soldiers melted, now flowing southwards. I am sitting by the bend in the street and talking to dirty water flowing down the drain. Go well, I will follow. Let me expose myself to the sun a little more. Perhaps until all that is water inside me is gone, and salt returned to the sea.

April is the month caught up between the gone and the unarrived. Poor thing. It’s hard to trust days and nights again. It takes time for the bud to arrive. Everything takes time. Everything takes exposure while waiting. Ready or not, everyone leaves.