Fool

March roared himself out in a thunderstorm last night, very flashy

and now April creeps in bashful, asking if it's her turn on the wheel yet.

It is spring, perhaps. Wind moves in odd ways over borderlands, kicks up

dust and tempers. In this deiced morning I am painfully earnest:

a raw nerve under red-cheeked sun. I extend my curling green hand

to test the air, to gamble no frost will touch me now. A fool.