poem

 Verge of Spring

This feels like the verge of spring

Even though winter clings

With the last of its waning powers

Naked trees clutch 

At a dullard gray sky

With bony arthritic hands 

A random pile of dirty ice,

Last remnant of week ago snow,

Glaciers against a curb

If you look close

You can see white buds of cherry trees

And daffodil stems just piercing the soil

If you look closer

You can see an empty patch

Of grass that won’t ever grow back 

3/15/22