'Tis but January
so this early Spring must be false
but these verdant hillsides
would have me think otherwise
were I less seasoned myself.
Still the proof that Winter's claw
has yet to relax and unclench
shows in the contorted thrust toward the sky
of these leafless old maples,
silvery white like bleached bones
As they line the path by the creek
For they truly know
In which season they abide.
The coldest is yet still to come:
I can tell by the hoarfrost,
This blanket of ice that has spread itself
across the field of mustard
That foolishly bloomed ere its appointed time.
Yes, this early Spring must be false
But on its heels
Will the real season appear.
|
