In Which I Scoff Like A Nordic Atheist Would At These April Snowstorms

Three roosters have to crow in three locales:
Fjalar, Gullinkambi and the black,
Ere I start to believe those rationales
Which say that summer's never coming back.
Garmr's still chained and quiet in his pit,
And Jörmungandr's still wet and asleep!
Naglfar still is harbored and that shit,
Old Loki, still is chained up way down deep,
The serpent's venom burning up his face
When Sigyn pauses to clean up the mess.
No, there is still no cause for me to pace,
Though snow does stymie April's spring progress.
The three years' winter is not yet at hand;
No matter what the bards say 'round the land.

Vernal Equinox, Hmm? Maybe Somewhere Else

Oh, and to think that only yesterday
I sat right here, seed catalogs in hand,
A-choosing plants as though it were near May
And time to sow a garden on my land!
Today the horizontal slow flies by
To mock my dreams and hopes and make me stash
Those catalogs. But I refuse to cry
Or throw those pretty booklets in the trash.
At some point soon this crap has got to end.
I don't believe in Fimbulvetr (or
In much besides, at this point, O my friend);
But know that I have been a damn fool for
The Ides of March, or something. I must wait
Until the real spring comes, as always, late.