april

by Matthew Stokdyk

Our love belonged in April,
for it was cruel;
it lasted full a year,
a lonely March broken
by shoures soote,
and kept torrential to the caustic end.

Nash knew it well—
April soft in flowered languor,
April cold with sudden anger—

but still the coming spring
is warm, and I love the sun,
and more the hope of getting burned.