It often happens April will not bring
by William Brendan McPhillips
The kind of end to Winter we call Spring.
We look for buds to burst the bond of sleep
And strain to hear the pond frog peepers peep.
The signs are there, the sudden yellow splash
Of optimism in the daily dash;
The purple, blue of crocus near a tree,
To simulate the coming Summer spree;
And still enough of Winter will not go
To set us free of gloves and hat and snow.
It is the human wanting sets the pace
Of Winter, Spring and Summer, that we trace
On calendars as if the world was but
Some human purpose meant to pose and strut.