Frozen Blossoms

we thought it was the end

we thought that the white skies

were in the past, but we think this

every year when April comes, like fools

we think this, marching on into the warm days

as if we found new life, as if we found

an opening, oblivious

of what's next, oblivious of what's waiting

like a frozen mountain range at the edge

of the week, that we will all have to climb,

that comes every year, this week

of the April fools telling each other

that before we know it, warm nights

will be here too, telling each other that the warm days

are here to stay, this week of walking through the park

in our short sleeves, our summer attitudes

donned, falling on the park grasses, lying still in

the park grasses in the tree patterns, watching

the ducks be ducks without a care, the reflections

in the ponds as their own purpose...

The great nonchalance of Summer descending, until we wake

to the last wisp of Winter reaching

into Spring, and our winter coats, our gray

clouds, our curses, are pulled from closets,

our wool bodies dark against the white fields,

our Summer temperaments dropping

with the frozen blossoms.