The pansy bowl sits, forlorn, on the floor

Searching for one beam of sun;

The sweaters I’d packed away with great hope

Again claim warmth second to none;

Thoughts of iced tea are now besotten;

Grass between toes? Imagination;

The smell of warm earth is nearly forgotten;

Neglected Spring left behind at the station;

It’s April the sixth in my northern state,

Outside, sparkling white, eight inches of snow;

I weep as I must be resigned to my fate,

With more in the forecast, or so we are told;

When will this nightmarish existence end?!

When will my socks no longer be wet?

When? When? When? When? When? When? When? When? When? When?

How much more miserable can it get?

Spring, if by some unknown, unintended breach;

We’ve carelessly, needlessly frightened away;

Or taken for granted green, pink, red, or peach;

Forgive! And come back for an extended stay!

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