Two Hours Before The Hail

the wind brings me raindrops

from clouds not yet overhead

and I watch them hit the windowpane 

while the last of the plum blossoms

fly directionless and free-form to the ground.

 

"It's chilly for April" we say quietly

not wanting to incur the wrath of Summer's heat

quite yet

 

and that wind has bite - 

leaving cheeks rosy with colour

and hands pulled up into sleeves

or pushed down into pockets deep

 

the rain a momentary instance

 

still snow

still ice

still life

to come.