I Remember April
I remember the weather like I remember
April – the arid,
stagnation of warm,
steaming, summer. Not that we have seasons.
Not that we have much to mark our calendars with in April, (April Fool’s perhaps?)
or maybe this year’s seasonal Friday – after all, it Was Good.
Sometimes the skies take to storm, and the two-minute rainbow that follows after the
distant thunder-anvil mirrors the oily, imperceptible, impenetrable sheen that one can barely call
Sometimes the lands take to flame, and when there is fire
there is smoke, not always visible smoke, but sometimes as visible as a sunset that arrives unannounced,
touching the tip of the senses just as a scent does upon half-waking.
Sleep is all that is interrupted in summer, slow-cooking in the evening, searing in the noon, the Sun
rules over the dainty Earth and all she does is bow,
ever so slightly, and in so acquainting with her Sun, intimacy of the spheres,
such does our terrestrial days blur into routine
suddenness of temperament.