I'm on spring break, poetry month is coming, and we might have a little snow. I’m wondering if even during spring break I’ll be able to do some gardening. It’s been a strange winter, hardly any moisture at all, and now, in the first weeks of spring, winter returns. I tell my students to write about the little things, and sometimes the big things, but about themselves personally. So here is a little thing really, considering the lives of so many in peril, but still…
I’ve already washed the shorts,
retrieved the summer shirts,
and now I must burrow back
to the farthest parts of the closet
where sweaters reside—
previously so satisfyingly warm,
now scratchy and heavy.
I reach high to pull out the boots
from the top shelf,
find the wool socks,
and go to shovel the sidewalk.
Spring promises such freedom;
no more minutes spent with layers.
I don’t have to warm the car.
I can touch the grass with my toes.
Is Spring always just around the corner?
Why won’t Winter go
and make a hasty exit
instead of lingering until
each snowflake has its dance?