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Seasons
For Mama

It has been almost a full four seasons since you left me.
I saw the end of summer come and go last year,
hot and sticky, like my fingers as I ran them through your hair.

Fall moved into winter seamlessly,
as when our fingers were entwined and one could not tell
which hand belonged to which woman.

When winter finally ravaged, absent of snow,
it was sometimes cruel and tear-stained like your eyes.
When you laughed they were like a faded tiger eye stone,
orbs of swirling color,
pulling me in like voodoo magic.
When you were angry, they were the color of black coffee.

Then Spring came, pollen and yellow blossoms falling in my hair,
like I fell, without abandon, drunk, wasted on a boy's bed,
curling into him like an infant, like I would curl into you.
I listened to his chest rise and fall like a breathing mountain,
a breathing house of bones, imagining it was you.

I woke up with a hangover in the morning,
as the sun made long and faded yellow lines on the wall,
and I learned that it is as T. S. Eliot said:
April is the cruelest month.