In Which It May Not Yet Be Spring

My lilacs bow like Atlas 'neath the weight

Of many inches of wet, sloppy snow.

It's far from Fortean to have, so late,

Such quantity dumped on us, but, you know

I'm really done with this. O Baltimore,

Weird city I shall visit just weeks hence,

Please tell me you shall have sunshine in store

And balmy weather. My wish is intense

To feel true springtime! But I should be glad:

The rototilling didn't go as deep

As shall be needed; moisture won't be bad

For this, our effort. Meanwhile I'll just keep

My snow boots and my shovel handy. Sigh.

Just months ago snow so gladdened my eye...

In Which I Cry Uncle

I couldn't find it, deep beneath the snow

The feeder that the birds and wind knocked down

And buried sometime during last night's blow.

I'm sure it's much the same all over town.

My pupils down to pinpoints in the glare,

My fingers freezing in their gloves, I tried

To dig a path for postmen, cars - I care

That people try to do their jobs despite

Conditions. They were pitiful enough,

My efforts; I could not sustain too much,

Could not draw breath sufficient for the tough,

Laborious removal of, as such

A day's and night's accumulation. I'm

Still dizzy as I type out this here rhyme.