A pale sun on a thin frost,
Winter was weak willed this year.
More than cynical, this season
that has seen it all and descended
As if bored with the whole deal
and sick of its own children,
Winter shunned January,
turned its back on February,
and waits now to pounce
on March, to pinch crocus
and daffodil at the first hint
of bud. Disgruntled with doing
the expected, breezes blew warm
when there should have been wind.
It’s all a precursor of more gray,
I have no doubt. Even so, April
will turn its face toward May
and flowers will bloom.
There is no denying Spring.