lace flung reckless to the cold,
bare green splayed.
What are you wearing?
Blades of grass act as informants;
buds heed innocent faces,
pretend to be plastic.
Winter is high on the lash;
sends April running to the lavatory,
licks speed from her hand.
I kiss. You stay kissed.
It will melt soon enough;
every bit squeezed, drowned,
trickled down, murmuring.
R.A.D. Stainforth enjoys a glass of wine...contemplates April...
*photo: Finland, 1968, by George F. Mobley