Most of the snow is already gone. A little bit stubbornly clings to my lawn and the surrounding tree branches. Every now and then a clump of snow falls hard to the ground, sometimes jostled by the wind, other times shaken by our resident leaper, Jumpy the Squirrel. Mostly, now, the snow just drips downward as it converts back to liquid. South and east of us the storm hit much harder, and still is working its way across the country's midsection. But for me, as I sit at the keyboard and gaze out at my lawn, this was winter's last gasp, which prompted the poem.
//APRIL SNOW
//The trees stood still
//Like sentinels.
//The breeze gave way,
//The Arctic blast
//Relented.
//It was a snowy glich,
//A last gasp, winter dying,
//His psyche escaping
//On that final breath.
//The sun returns,
//A bit chastened, perhaps,
//A bit less certain
//Of permanence,
//A bit more mindful
//That seasons change
//With the wind.
//And I, shivering
//Under a blanket
//One minute,
//Throw it off in haste
//The next
//When the fire within
//Demands
//Its own season.
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