November days turn dim and cold
as we slide down to pinprick light
and brace our souls for longest dark,
rich colors chasing flocks of migrant birds
cruel times for light starved eyes.
Yet worse there is the maiden month
that masks her fangs, bright ribbons
trailing barely warming breeze
summoning new green and crocus cups
to come and greet the sun.
Then tosses back her cape revealing
claws, which hold my frozen daffodills,
and shrieks her name in falling snow.
Oh yes sweet April there is no doubt
you take the prize.
The NaPoWriMo prompt for day 4 was our choice of cruelest month (after T.S. Elliot). Watching snow encase my daffodills this morning, and birds become intent on seeds again, the winner, hands down (at least this year) is April.