Groundhog Day
This February will not usher spring,
wisteria like grapes hung on their roods;
more pewter shadows does the season bring.
Now I've misplaced all the beatitudes
to lambent grasses flocking on the mount
as spring green creepers tendril up the posts,
the lilac blossoms teeming like a fount
of amulets to stay the latent ghosts
that haunt as far as April with their rime.
As Puxatawny Phil goes under ground
I've six more weeks of gelid hush to mime
the turgid verses of this numbing round.
I rummage blessings as the winter girds,
yet somehow can't remember any words.
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