SeasonsMature

i
The April air pricks at me,
dragging rough fingers along my skin,
digging up old wounds as it goes along.

ii
Daylight feels stronger,
it reflects off everything and I’m blind,
I don’t remember March being so abrasive.

iii
You hound me like the dogs
of February blizzards, howling with the wind
and chasing me indoors with the fire.

iv
But I have a January house
everything that leaves is new 
and everything that enters dies.

The End

8 comments about this poem Feed