Like this April, limping into May. You see me
fallow, as though fixed rigid in the opposite season—
leaves in decay, every blossom withered, chill descending
deeper and deeper into the stiff ground. You see me
un-inked. You see me empty-handed, fingers slack
even though tools strew the table. Normally, April’s spring-fed
rivulets pull richness forth. In bygone years abundance
veered toward embarrassing even the most greedy
of April’s ritual participants. What happened here?
Fond of a mystery as I normally am, I worry this one harbors
horror in its sharp corners. I will be forensic: I will glean
via observation what traps were sprung. Time will not
muddle my investigation, brief as the window’s opening
may be. I must know more. Fear less. Tug every tiny tendril.
