Wind, with its heavy and still chill breath, rattles the
flag poll rope near where I sit with my rapidly cooling coffee, a wind that
comes a bit too later to live up to the old adage, , though as clouds stir
above, April may yet still bring us rain, the ropes stirring like out of tune
wind chimes, singing a song long out of time, music maybe only I can appreciate
as we slip more firmly into spring, not as sweet as her songs were, her amazing
voice shaping sadness into joy the words do not convey, seven days after April
Fool’s, although even now, I think, every day in Aprile with me playing the
constant role of fool, the melody in the air perfectly illusive, selling false
hope I know is even more out of date, as I set, and hear the wind song instead
of her song, and feel the same ach as when I first heard it back, then, my ropes
rattled with each gust of wind.
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