march left me in a lurch
suppose it was in a hurry to go
to usher in the harsh summer
the april sun hits out at me.
painfully, I carry it on myself
a tempest in the making-
burning my skin in the process
loud march should have stayed
if the compass had not let it stray
maybe it needed my persuasive power
which I needed to use.
"riches of the disappearing months,
I try to collect in my palm-
waiting for you to pluck it from there"