March Blizzard
Just when Old Man Winter
lowers his baton
and seems poised for a bow,
His arm thrusts upward,
demanding the attention
of musicians and audience alike.
There is no gentle easing
into the final cadences of this symphony.
It blasts over us, filling every
space in its path.
Violin bows
race over strings
in a mad frenzy of sound,
matching fierce, swirling snow.
Horns blast, wind howls
Drums announce the
steady tattoo of sleet
on roof and window.
As sounds crash around us,
Pulling us into the storm
We can only watch and wonder.
Oh, yes, Old Man Winter
is not yet done.
As he smiles the smile
of those who’ve had another chance
to strut their stuff
and make their mark.
Copyright © Toni Sullivan | Year Posted 2018
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment