Fickle April, startle me.
Spring’s shaky hold
knocked loose by the whimsy
of the jet stream,
pulling a curtain of wintry air
and icy dampness
from latitudes far to the north.
But freezing rain is no match
for the inexorable tilt of the globe
and the radiant sun, even through clouds,
draws the dandelions on —
golden lions’ teeth of my lawn.
Unheedful, the earth is verdant,
And me, I have a rain coat
I made the questionable boast that I write poetry, and thought that I darn well better actually write something. So here is something.