Hogging Ground
How mean is Winter, what a miser with his light,
received so desperately, as when a desert gets rare rain.
So furry figures of folklore are forever held in doubt.
A glimpse, through a seasonally neglected pane:
pink and purple streaks alleged that Spring might come again,
and with it marched in strangers, creatures seldom seen:
possibilities of hope for other things, things of green,
blue skies, brightness, perhaps a hint of love–- the sun was out!
The next day’s dank clouds and winds waged another bout
which fought to freeze – - or melt – - the optimism of one
who’d seen and been fooled by the February sun.