[This poem was written as a response to the poem "Spring" by Edna St. Vincent Millay.]
Spring hangs like a dripping woolen coat from the pewter frame of a glowering sky. Why is it that poets write of spring as if it were made of rose petals and birdsong?— and insist that spring is when 'true love' blooms? There are no flowers, no birds, no eager lovers with this horrid impostor, this con of a season. Here by me, on my windswept, narrow land, I know well how it goes— spring holds winter's slushy hand, and the two of them laugh heartily at us, flinging their icy spittle in our faces.
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