Cruel April

This pitiless April morning I threw open my door
And there in a collapsed heap was an exhausted traveler,
Her straggly hair like struggling dandelions on her back,
And limbs splayed out like denuded twigs on a bare tree.
I looked and saw her still alive and asked her name,
“Spring,” she whispered, “Midwestern Spring,”
And died as the merciless rain poured down.