Should Be Spring (1985)

Wee snowflakes linger like diamonds on daffodils
Each one a miracle forged by the hands of God’s tiniest minions
At play in the bleary vapor hanging just overhead

A fat-breasted robin ripe with unlaid eggs
Bounds with purpose and pecks at the hard frosty ground
Unsatisfied, she continues her patient search

The brilliant green blades of the tulips stand icy guard
Keeping cached their beckoning scarlet cups
Until a more welcoming climate evolves

Silver clouds in minuet on a palette of white
The deceptive brightness of the overcast
Pierces my eyes
And I shudder
As my breath escapes
In a conspicuous cloud
From my face

I pull at my scarf
Muttering a playful, unmeant curse
Reveling in guilty secret
At the cruel magnificence
Of what should be spring