The standing tree has fallen down;
the soil hangs in strings, like webs,
which swing half wrecked in the uncaring breeze.
April is the cruelest month, which is odd,
because it always acts like it cares,
opening its doors, promising and even providing warmth,
on occasion proving kind as summer.
April has no constancy.
We remember its kindnesses
as we remember our own,
walking past the churned mud, rampaging streams, and overturned trees.
We paint the still moment in between two storms
and nothing more.
The standing tree is dead.
The weather is as coy as a toddler
meeting a guest for the first time,
but the wooden spine has been snapped.
The river chatters as it passes the rotting marker.
Little voices chattered,
moving like a brook around an island,
swinging from limb to limb,
perching for a second on one idea before moving on.
Voices, like butterflies, never gracing the same stem twice.
The island was always constant
regardless of the speed of the stream-
A counterpoint of wisdom.
Spring floods stole our constancy,
removing the nail which held our windchimes,
now the wind blows without music.
Here is the edge of darkness.
The sea without a compass star.
Grief falls like night on a spring day.