on a cold day in april,
green-filtered sunlight
seeps fire into chilled fingers,
mudpuddles drip with
quiet despair and taunting
rags of cloud break
silence,
flitting patch-wise across
minds otherwise
deserted.

on a green day in april,
watered-down sunshine
makes its appearance
in my bones,
creeps skyward
from the humidity of
clay-drenched feet,
spreads warmth
into a ragged soul,
breaks open the shell of my
longing

like gulls against a cliff
some parching day in august
break open clamshells,
bringing wet inchoate life
to a new silence
or the fragile blue
of the robin’s egg
fallen
under taunting clouds
as they flit,
heedless, across
another cold day in april.