Where is it? Where’d it go?
One day and then another,
I was damn sure it’d come.
I watch blankets of grey hanging
overhead, hesitant little washes of drizzle,
and check I have the day right
(they only seem to blur together more and more),
and yet, skies clear—
well, clear except for tolerable cottony strands
to punctuate that wide-open blue field—
in a moment that seems to smirk as it slips away.
What’s clearer than that instance but the truth of it?
I’m sorry. Does the allusion bore you?
Just allow me one more:
if this fickle thing is spring,
let me have the winter I know better.