Late Winter

The storm covers the willow buds

And crocus blossoms

With its churlish chill.

The first flakes in their solo dances

All lace and frozen spindrift

Late of the Atlantic

Are now accumulating,

Bending boughs

Marching madly

In great unison chorus lines,

Dampening the hope of an early spring and

Forwarding for another day

This wanton winter swell

And the story of such days

Somewhere in between.

Is?

Is that all there is to a nor'easter?

Or should I just look out the window

   and smile?

As for this while

There is a sky, dirty-wet-white

Crossing the heavens low

From shoulder to shoulder

And trees, aplenty

Wait-watching in moldering puddle of leaves.

The squirrels, my new neighbors

Are hanging off the bird feeder

By tenuous toenails

Great grey pendulums

They are tracking the morning's moments

Seed by seed

And nothing more shall willfully come

Of any of this

Except for the waiting and watching.