April

They fell like molting feathers.

I watched with jacket over short-sleeves,

their dallying fall to earth,

their silence on the lips of April.

What would my last snow look like,

a shaking off of drywall dust,

cave thoughts melting in the sun,

flung into the warm chatter of her mud,

where nothing sticks but

barbecue sauce I dab from my useless mouth.