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.