April, but is it spring yet?
The snow hangs heavily
On the black and green branches
A bird scurries between the garbage cans.
You're sitting at my table, by the window
Reading one of my favorite books
The young light catches your golden hair
I need no longer search for your deepest self.
Most hidden is you face
You don't know how much I long for you
Your mind fixed on some other goal
How then my soul catches the essence of you.
You sigh and close the book again
Now we are together at the window
You say: April, you can tell by the light
And I've let go of you once more.
Stella Trevin
April 2001
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