In tribute to a mild winter
we allow joy to follow our amazement
as a miniature snow storm hits Vermont
this early April.
The winds walloped us last night
as we sunk into the pillows,
anticipated the worst,
and dutifully bought bread and milk,
gassed up the cars,
and waited for the renegade precipitation
to forget her manners
and enter the party uninvited.
No one paid for this lopsided exchange
where spring and summer edged us closer to hope
only to be taken in by cancellations
clumsy with ungainly excuses
to the flowers that dared to collect the sun and color
like the blush on a girl's face after her first dance.
The night is hushed now and we forgive everything
knowing it is all a temporary, youthful hoax-
a whistle at the door
reminding us to all come home early.
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