Like a velveteen hand smoothing fronds with April tears.
Like paint splatters on canvas dripping summer suns, autumn rusts, winter oxblood, spring pinks.
Like the blade of an ice skate slashing its veins in winter wind.
Like the lead weight of a mirror reflecting physical beauty which ends.
Like the sparkle of crystals from an overturned sugar bowl.
The rain chuckles and asks: “Did Leif Erickson turn over a new leaf?”
Then the rain goes psycho, pals with the wind and blows leaves hither and non.
Leaves twist and turn in the rain, shout to each other: “Is this the winter of our discontent?”
Leaves cling fierce but lose family members.
Do leaves mourn?
I hear leaves waltz with the rain at night, patter a child to sleep,
fragrance dreams with velveteen prayer.
Like a gentle hand April rains return to soothe.