The Snow in April (First Draft)
This snow in April,
our returning Ides of March
For months have we dreamt of tennis shoes at puddles' fringe,
the sun casting its rays into the blue like a fisherman's net
the sun casting its rays into the blue like a fisherman's net
Yet winter's white emptiness holds on with pale knuckles
The songs of robins seem not so much melodic as discordant
When I saw two on a snowy patch, I wondered if they felt tricked