April waits indifferent
in wet snow, groundmelt.

The parks cast off their coverings
to try again their green.

It’s a long way back to spring.
Easter, the raising season,

but that hope’s slippery, inchoate
as these spilled words, wine rings

wiped in time from the table.
A late rain opens the town’s

pores wide. Almost visible, the musk
of mulch and the sting of brine

rise from the ground in waves.