April is a thin place as the Irish say,
the fine line between now and nowhere
stomped into the fooking mud and
the nakedness of life on bare display
—sunlight glinting off frozen marsh
high nests clinging to the barren past.
Can you hear the wind move
through its emptiness? In April
everything is owned by no one.
We belong to what endured
and once again we are excused,
given nature’s pardon to resume.