The Innisfree Poetry Journal

by Bill Wunder


Squalls of powder swirl,
cloud out the rising Spring sun.
Soon ascendant,
Sol is a seasoned fighter
and can take a punch.
My calendar says daffodils
and I should be working
the soil in the warmth of bird-song
looking for fiddleheads,
my hands turning the earth.
But everything is covered in white
and the breeze sneaks through
austere woods like a ninja
to strike me in the face.
Then just as suddenly, stills.
The flakes bloom in size,
muffle all sound save the crack
of an old maple's limb,
that so near renewal
could not shoulder
one more day of winter.

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