As a child, I believed in
April, in nights that
drew way from winter,
and pulled sharply into
Spring

the smell of polish
soaking into old oak
furniture

my fingers playing
lightly with the
wind

and daffodils

now, I dread
the frequent showers,
the Easter eggs planted
like mines,

surrounding me

in that moment of
unkowingness, I am a child
again, checking flower beds
for clues and seeking sweetness
in neglected corners
of earth

I was never interested
in hunting until I lost
myself