In April we leave the window blinds open at night
regardless of the temperature.
In December we seal every pane by 5:00
and hunker down in our leather bunker
for the night.
But by April we are sick of the dark and cold,
we crave light and lingering sunsets,
we’ll take any last photon that might care to bounce our way,
we leave a light on for it.
Instead we get snow hurled at the glass,
big wet pellets
or flaky sheets whipping in our faces
but we refuse to block out
its overripe welcome
determined to stare it down
until it breaks out in a purple blush
This poem appeared in Steam Ticket, Volume 11, April 2008, under the byline S. Sajbel.
Hear the audio version of this poem.