Mid-January, mid-forties, fifty –
the season turns in on itself
examines its ways, decides it’s
April under all that bluster and
chill, removes the snow and ice
undresses down to bare ground
brings on some puddles and mud
essentials of spring, even a bird
spent some time this morning
calling to its mate, the sun opens
appears confused by it all, a bit
embarrassed by this seasonal
sleight of hand, this cheap magician’s
trick, rabbit out of a hat, bouquet
of flowers out of the sleeve, as
if the audience didn’t know all
these tricks, the routine, the wolf
in sheep’s clothing, the sad end
to this brief party, but it’s a party
nonetheless.
