Hidden in a drawer
among the knives and lighters -
up where the kids can't reach -
is an envelope filled with every April
I have ever lived.
April because it offers the most reliable
history of variation,
the occasional blizzard
poking out, askew among
heat waves and drenching gullywashers,
tornadoes roughing up the edges
of fall-familiar days.
April because it lives in a sure hope
after winter,
and I love winter,
but still thirst for summer come April.
April because it has the heaviest lift,
innumerable tons of foliage,
leaves needing lofting up to
bare branches,
and the innumerable tons of
new rain needed to maintain it.
April because each one is remembered
as its own crossing.
Sometimes, late at night,
I take them out and spread them
on the coffee table,
and reread each one.
April, because it always had
the most to teach.
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