The April air pricks at me,
dragging rough fingers along my skin,
digging up old wounds as it goes along.
Daylight feels stronger,
it reflects off everything and I’m blind,
I don’t remember March being so abrasive.
You hound me like the dogs
of February blizzards, howling with the wind
and chasing me indoors with the fire.
But I have a January house
everything that leaves is new
and everything that enters dies.