April, you have misled me,
you have misled all of us,
with your teasing smiles
and warm caresses.

Now, your touch is cold,
and I shield myself
against it.

Where were you
this summer, when
my flowers were dying
and all that I needed—
all that no one could
give me enough of—
was water?

You offer it now.
Oh, how you offer it,
by bucket and pail, in
lakes on the sidewalk.
You say you’re here
to help me water

the garden. Now.
But April, it doesn’t
help when you smash
the young daffodils
down against
hard earth,

like a basketball
jamming
so many thumbs.

Then there is
your noise, April,
at night. I like
rock ’n roll

as much as
the next person,
but not at two
in the morning,
when my son
wakes me

because he can’t
sleep through your
concert, its cacophony
and strobe lights.

Everyone here is
tired of you, April.
I’m just the one
who’s telling you,
that’s all.

You say you don’t
understand. You say
you’re just doing
what comes

naturally. That I
might love you
again next year,
that I might
miss you

sooner than that,
in summer heat.
All of this may
be true,

April.

But older, almost,
than the cycle of
seasons

is this question:
How can I miss you
when you won’t
go away?

 

 

NaPoWriMo, Day 10 prompt: Write an un-love poem.