The Mystery of Spring

(a Salute to Howard Moss) Although it is not yet warm, we have shoved to the backs of closets snow-boots, gloves, and woolen scarves, locked tire chains and ice scrapers into trunks of automobiles as if tomorrow the first bloom appears. Oh, stiff wind blow, hold back snow, whose flakes unwelcome gust while hearts claim lilac scent. Oh, pale moon, come, lend your light. Oh, songbird, drop your sweet notes here, while old men's hats sail past and girls push down their skirts— with both hands—as purses cling on hunched shoulders and hair-strands blow against cheeks. What is this howling wind and who brought this mournful song, this wild, feathered up-surging as if tomorrow the world upturns. We've shoved our gloves, our boots and scarves behind the racks in backs of closets, locked away the sacks of salt, and scoured the ground for signs of hyacinth buds or crocus flush, while old mens' hats sail past and girls hold down their skirts as purses sway and hair-strands whip against their cheeks? And though it is not yet warm, there is the mystery of spring.