The calendar insists that spring has come

buds trembling on edge, sadly brave, but lost

but something in the wind strikes strangely dumb,

its teeth sunk deep in branches wreathed in frost.

A pewter sky hangs above empty park,

where daffodils lean back as if to say

“we bloomed too soon; this isn’t what we meant,”

their yellow hopes now folding into grey.

Umbrellas bloom, mushrooms in shiny street,

while summer clothes, once boldly brought to light,

retreat again to drawers in sad defeat

the sun a guest who texts, “Not home tonight.”

Still, weather shifts. Tomorrow may be true.

We dress in layers, just in case it’s blue.