When you leave a place in mid-march
you can’t expect that it
will be the same place on return –
in how it feels; or how its lit.
There was a blizzard when we left,
now trees drip in the mists
and waning piles of dirty snow
as scuttled sailboats list.
I think the crocuses have got
a fighting chance this time;
their February siblings, froze,
collapse back into grime.
No seasons pass me without some
slight worry in these days
but weather is not watching me
nor notices my gaze.