Jack Frost In May
“Here’s the door,” I say.
Surely it knows the way.
“The sun is coming, you die today.”
There’s no life for snow in May.
The coats, long-handles and wool socks are stowed,
There’s green growing grass to be mowed,
June bugs hum on deck
And thunder rolls in the West.
The pitcher fidgets on the mound,
Winter’s hand’s been overplayed
The change has come for you,
Tired, cumbersome, frigid relic – “Shoo!”
No snowmen, snowballs,
Or jingling bells at all – life is starting over,
The end for the end.
May 21st, 2013 @ 8:20am.