April Aubade
When you finally
sleep with the
window open in
a century old
house, the itch
of April enters,
a highway breathes
through, trains woo
darkly westward. Come
morning, wood pecker
drills a hole
into your waking
mind. A pin
of light shines.
Air sucks your
closed door against
its frame, trying
to make a
path through you.
Wood knocks wood.
Your metal mechanism
clicks in its
lock, hinges almost
creak. Everything begs
a thin opening.
(Telluride Watch, April 14, 2011)
