For April

I think not the cruelest of months

but sunshine and softness

And tautskinned and clear, pink, new.

Fresh to my lifescarred, smooth to my leather.

Sparkled orbs to mine weary and crinkled.

Wide to mine squinted and cautious.

Spring taught rebirth reminders nearly forgotten

By winters bundled, isolated, cold and slow sleeping.

Chittering, scampering, a running brook spring

Budding, stretching, rousing winters ursus

To chirp and fly and embrace sweet breath again.

She is April.