Early April
The breeze almost nonexistant
She stands outside
In her early morning way
And looks around
And Listens
And Feels

The single half-candle
Just enough
for her not to see by,
She observes the trees, the streetlamps,
The cars, the chirping,
The brisk air

She smells the vanilla of the candle
And lights another match
To try to gain more light
And almost just to watch the match flare.

The night air is finally enough
To drive her back
Into the warmth of the evil indoors
But not quickly enough to avoid
Wondering why she doesn't just
Allow herself to freeze.