#poem #poetry #amwriting #nopowrimo Hinge 4 April


When just in lingered scented air
outstretching in unbalanced days
without the fullest heat of summer
   or forgotten cold, you, without reply
   before the month is ended: slowly
start to die.

              Not waiting for all flower bloom,
or trees to plump, their fruit to swell,
in single primal pivot hour,
our longest shadow turns, our hands hung loose
   at our side.

Sill, the rain hangs in season
   coming from the early year.
Still the turning, turning still
   in orange haze upon our eyes
   grown used to useful, useless days,
counting less.

June you are more cruel than May.
If it may be said that hope is worst;
   than failure, or success.