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Concurring With 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.
Copyright ©
Katharine L. Sparrow
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