Why is it so difficult to banish?
That stubborn cold that burrows down to the bone,
pinch felt on the skin when you dare to step outside uncovered.
The look of winter remains long after spring has made its calendar declaration.
Gaunt branches poking at cloudy skies, the scent of fetid leaves in murky melt puddles.
Stubborn islands of snow and ice in the shadowy parts of a yard imploring a seasonal shift.
Guardian birds who’ve overseen winter’s term sing songs of eviction and welcome.
Leaveleave Leaveleave calls the chickadee. Come Come Come rallies the crow.
We munch sweet greenhouse carrots, savour tangy lemons imported from hot places.
Ingest what we desire — freshness, tenderness, growth. Forced internal blooming
to overtake a season of still grey.