In April

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

of crocuses.
       This poem appeared in Steam Ticket, Volume 11, April 2008, under the byline S. Sajbel.

       Hear the audio version of this poem.

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