By Edna Mead
A pale sun glints across the swirling drifts,
Bent trees are crackling with a silver load,
A wild gale shrieks in mischief as it lifts
A stinging screen of flakes across the road.
It seems midwinter still, and still the world
Lies wrapped in sleep upon the year’s high shelf,
But March is such a rogue, his challenge hurled
In fury cannot hide his other self.
A softer azure tints the sky’s cold blue,
Sometimes, for moments, all the wind is quiet,
Ice jewels melt to tears the rendezvous
Of ruffled sparrows teems with April riot.
Still roars the lion, but the lamb is bolder,
The madness has a subtle touch of play,
The night was Winter, but the Spring grown older,
Knows what a sham of Winter is today.