We know it can’t last.
It’s still February, and it always snows in March
and April and sometimes even in May.
We’ll take it, though, the hunks of ice
shrinking and sliding off the roof
into puddles that weren’t there yesterday,
the rivulets from melting snow almost as loud
as a rainstorm, pouring off every surface
under the bright turquoise horizon.
I level entire towns of slush with Gene Kelly kicks
while whistling show tunes from musicals
that haven’t been written yet.
I dare the craven cold to show its pinched little face
one more time, knowing it will tomorrow,
when all this will be as if it had never been.
The hell with tomorrow.
Today it’s spring all day, as free as the sky,
but only one per customer, thank you so very much.
I close my eyes and pretend it’s raining.