We open the windows,
Tall French dormers,
And we get back into bed.

White wet avenues of autumn neige
Seep down the mountainside.

Across the boulevard, 
Members of the old folks’ home
Peer longingly from sanctioned panes,
Waiting for the sun to rip
Into April’s balm.

She has passed this way each year
Complete with scarf and sunglasses
As if on an errand.

The mulch of sound sleeps creeps
Across the bed. We joke
About the past as if it were 
An impossible climb or vague heroics.

The blossoms burst prematurely.
Rain drives a plane of pleasure
Into pavement.