The radio spits out
news that can’t be held
listening as witness,
eyes opening and turning
to the weirdness of snow
on the seventeenth
of April, snow, hail, sleet
doesn’t this seem
more likely than
all that world stuff?
Mid-April, not mid-March
The days are more
February than May
more grey than sun
and all that again today
This weather three sixty
made fields fine brocade,
green and gold and white,
shining drops on each twig
each an upside down world
each the moment’s truth
and then gone.
