The month of April's cruelest, Thomas said
(By Thomas I mean Eliot, T.S.).
While he meant more its goading from the "dead"
The dormant plants and flowers, I'll profess
A crueler face of April is by far
The storms of spring, the snowfall and the wind
That drives it into drifts, buries one's car,
And barricades one's house. Have I so sinned
In gloating o'er the beauties of my home
That I should so be cursed and have to dig
Through waist-deep snow to leave? Oh how the foam
Did fleck my face as I fought 'gainst those big
Waist-deep drifts with a less than perfect tool
A plastic shovel! Yeah, I'm super-cool.
Sunday, April 5, 2009
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