morning was sadder than april

morning was sadder than april he looked at his clock and calendar at the same time then glanced back at april before it ended and ahead to may before it had begun. there were no flowers spraying color or fragrance… no breeze to push the clouds along and no promise of hope beyond the horizon. it was morning and morning was sadder than all of april —nowhere to turn, nowhere to hide— just time—minutes really—before he had to go. there were no birds in the sky on a day such as this… third monday—april now too far gone— yet may too far away. morning was sadder than all of april and he had chosen to watch as april surrendered it’s place to the delegation of memories. morning pushed hard on the clouds, moving quieter than the silence of daybreak, waiting like a vagrant at a bus depot and with less hope for kindness. there were no flowers spraying color or fragrance across the countryside… and no promise of hope beyond the horizon. morning was sadder than all of april and only fragments of memories remained tolbert