April 18, 2011

It is snowing in southwest Michigan. Such weather is unusual so late. The trees are squirting buds that advocate For green profusions that yesterday began To grunt and poke and strain toward full-blown spring. Now fleeced, the trees are January stark. Though clocks, sprung forward, hedge against the dark, We hear the arias our miseries sing When darkness is a slave to all that white. If global warming is the fangs of doom I see its poison wafting, from this room. The future will be mottled if not bright. Perhaps I’ll die before the killing trend. I hear my children’s voices on this wind.