Historically, I fall in love in April

Historically, I fall in love in April.

I am pleased to report that

I fell in love this April, too.

When I think back on the month, I go

what lovely things to have been able to do and have—

well, it certainly looks nice—

I am grateful for—

It is a forced, semi-sincere effort.

It has not been the cruellest month, but I don’t know what to make of these

new Aprils

that are abundant with lack, wanting, and the effort to navigate what was

once easy and routine

I miss days longer than night

I miss mangos and pineapple,

and peaches that don’t taste a little sad

lamenting their forced arrival too late in the season

I miss the reasonableness of bare legs

I miss waking up unaware of the freeze in my nostrils

I miss the people I miss more than usually miss them

I miss an April that promises summer, not winter.

I feel like the non-native ducklings I see here at this time of year, whose

primal body clock also hasn’t adjusted to the Southern move into dark,

stuck in a pushing yearn for the light of the North.

Wherever I am the autumnal equinox hits a nerve in my psyche

Triggering the rise of anxiety as

the leaves turn

then fall

breaking through sharp but clean

with neatly defined

edges

sending me

swirling

until

I freeze

in tiredness or apathy or something like that.