Confusion knocks about the yard.
Degrees climb from their beds
until Cold drops down from afar
bringing Rain and cooler heads.
Birds shelter in the pines,
chattering endlessly.
Even the Insects chant their rhymes.
Not the joyous songs of Spring
but curious verse of wondering.
Ground remains frozen with mirth
at the duplicity of Mother Earth.
Buds set on Tree and Bush.
Bulbs grudgingly against Soil push.
Forsythia is no silly fool
sensing Climate is Lord of Misrule.
She refuses yet to bloom
awaiting Snow’s futile return so cruel.
It is too soon to celebrate Winter’s demise.
This is only recess, not summer vacation.
Still, it is a lovely surprise
to see such a glorious Sun rise.
annarino writes 