Winter's bland embrace smothers the land and its inhabitants
no spring swirl of swallows or even a twittering of redpolls
can yet break the trance in which we plod.
Bare branches of ash trees look like witches' brooms
stuck into the frozen ground handle first.
Would there were a witch hereabouts
because I'd barter with her to break this spell.
Oh Winter you've been harsh this year
wielding all of your power yet sharing few of your gifts
I'd like to curse your blinding whiteness,
your gray slush and clinging clay mud, your knifing wind and stinging sleet,
yet what good would that do?
Instead I'll wait you out
'til spring comes 'round to wrest control
when the tiniest zeeee from the first gnatcatcher
sends you scampering to hide behind Autumn once more.