April Fools Day After
Some crease in the calendar
folds February
into April
and we wake to white-out,
the wind trying to blow snow back
to when it belonged,
trees shaking
knobbed fingers,
while the cold, careless of the scold,
settles over us like an officious white hen, covering
our near-hatch
not only with down
but a new white shell (no yolk
intended.)
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This is my sixth poem for April National Poetry month, this one for Margaret Bednar’s prompt on Nature at Real Toads.
The above picture is from this morning–actually yesterday was more dramatic with snow, sun, and “snow devils”–little whirlwinds of snow. Below is a pic of the night before the storm.
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