Wet April Flows through Fleece

by Rebecca Anne Renner

April
mops the yellow
scent of rejection
off its thighs.
It
clings to daybreak
like a perfume
sodden whore,
fat, docile,
where
a tigers claws
and serpent's
tongue once grew,
soft
with years of lying
down in rutted soil
too paltry for a summons
or a call to tea,
a simpering
orchard is born
and withers.