Winter stands miserable at the corner
his raiment worn and out of season
dismissed and yet he stands stubborn
He waves his flat cap at Easter,
teasing her with flurries of sleet
from pockets torn and stitched by frost and hail.
He blows a gale at April’s passing fancy,
a kiss to rub roses in her cheeks.
His face is hoar shorn and forlorn, his eyes crystal
diamonds pierce the veil of day and cast ice in the way
of breaking buds.
April sixth has come and I see him turn his face at last
towards the north.
A slog of frozen fog and blitz of hail
to knock the heads of tossing daffodils.
A glance back to remind me he will return again.
~ Dave Kavanagh