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.