The Cruellest Month by Joanna Parypinski Don’t be fooled by these eggshell spring days, fragile as a glass mosquito and lonely as bony branches bare from winter’s breath. In a timid grass-scented breeze, we try to stay awake through dusk, or like fat caterpillars cocoon ourselves into butterflies where we flit in and out of shade. How soon the nightingale shakes off her feathers, and the cheshire moon casts her pearly grin on fleeting orange light. That’s when buds turn to beetles, leftover leaves crumble like ash, dew crystallizes into ice. You are charcoal, the night sky shines in each of your starry teardrops. It’s not your fault, don’t cry— Nobody told you that at any moment, spring can look back at winter and turn to salt.
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