The Cruellest Month

A cold place

I'm getting wet and I don't care at all;
the liquid amber tree is losing
its red and orange hands
the smell is dry pepper and I recall

mounds of such leaves left behind
by the tree nuding up for the cold.

I am the cruellest girl, with my
flagellating thoughts on my back.
I shan't personify the seasons,
nor take the weather personally.
We all know the sting of a beautiful day.
We all have had comfort in clouds.
.
I'm hearing the promise of frost.
A cold place in the bed makes me scissor
my limbs. There are no daffodils,
nothing budding in the shadows.

I want to stick to you like plaster.
I'm drowning in dim April showers.

April 25 = The cruellest month