“What Me, Cruel?”

April stares back at us and asks: 
What me, cruel?

Because mournful windows
rattle in my winds

and pots tip over, green 
with rust or lichen?

Because hairs on your bare legs
shiver like crocus?

She finds us in her glassy eye
and springs: 

You are morose, but life revives 
on my terms (her smile impervious)

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