Drizzle

Drizzly April, sun a stranger,
friend died, the air likewise,
grief in the weather, dull tremor
in the heart, the word “joy” so brittle,
it would crumble in my hand if it
weren’t for the slow slice of the onion,
a damnable vegetable with no hope of clearing.
Knife and I equally cutting but then
the blade overtakes me, slicing rings,
spraying my eyes, adjudicating which
tears are more sincere: the real or the false.
Birds at the empty feeder. Did you forget
something, they sing. You’ll find succor
elsewhere, I tell them. We all do when
the usual places dry up. “Dry”... such
an uncomfortable word when the gray
outside can’t help itself. It’s April after all.
The aged wrinkled skin of the new beginning.
One death down. One more in the making.