Spring's Bosom

It is said
That after the storm one blossoms,
Although the only guarantee
Is there is no guarantee.

Personally speaking
Storms leave big messes,
Stunned survivors,
Looking forward to starting
From square one, again.  Sigh…

Winter can side-step any budding spring.
Any puddle-product mosquito worth her wings
Can confirm.
Blink and you’ll miss it.
…
There, you missed it.

All that’s left
Is her red hot itchy calling card.

Snow mounds
Blizzard born,
Slide into the gutter
With little pomp
Given this circumstance,
No fragrance
No flower,
Yielding only a crop of wet shoes
And anguish.

So, no corsage to the formal,
Riders on the storm.
And who said we must embellish
Spring’s bosom anyway?

After the tempest
One might consider looking for
A steady stem
Lowly but hopeful.

Twigs speak more hopefully
Of the future.