Spring is slowly creeping across the city
The green moss and struggling crocus
Rearing their heads
In the still-cold sunlight of early April.

"April is the cruelest month"
I read from the tattered, dogeared book
"breeding lilacs out of dead land"
And I think of you
And how spring creeps through my veins
Like a subtled disease
Like your touch

And the pagan in me worried
That spring would never come
And the heart inside me worries
That you will come again
Just as I'm getting over you.