It’s April and It Should Be Spring
The gods are tired of tending fires.
Against the window, snow.
Each night the hour hand moves
time and us closer to the light.
No one wants to go out. No one
wants to stay in. And the snow.
Robins do their silly walk across the lawn,
dead grass dangling from their beaks.
Crocuses raise their purple risk
through the ice-crusted mulch of maple,
oak, beech, and willow. They last
a day. Clumps of daffodils stay
blossom-tight. We want to put away
sweaters. What would the saints do?
We haul in more wood. It is snowing.
Thursday and it is snowing and wind cold.
Winter’s wedged itself into a crack
along the equinox. We know, in time,
the trees will bud, the flowers rise
and bloom. We do what the earth does.
[First published in Temenos, Published later in an alternative form in Poetry East, Subsequently published in Practicing to Walk Like a Heron (Wayne State University Press))