Around piles of gutted grain
three-fingered duck tracks knit lace of the flimsy snow.
On the hill
sled skids magnify the lace
into giant curtains.
Clots of leaves, rake's refugees
wait in frozen sugar at the mouths of streets.
The sky wears only a sweater of gray
Not the stout wool layers of January.
Shovel's rasp on concrete, a sound of storm
is missing today.
We could almost lose our minds with Spring
Like butter on Sunday morning toast
this snow will relax into the warm earth
Before winter scowls.