This Is Spring

You look out the window and see snow so wow
you shout

He looks back at you with crystalline salt crusted
glasses

And you love him drunken sloppy with morning
sorrow

Unwillingly dripping along the lines like old
Winter losses

What are we doing you ask him directly with
bluster

His face puffing and piling into banks and fences
he answers

Missing a shadow pass over the last of my relative
chances

You turn from the glass aching without any doubt
now


-