Still Winter (Spring) Poem

Still Winter (Spring) Poem

A warm, cheap snow, lightly wind-twirled,
rises (so it seems) from grates, puffs
out trees, fills the complicated furrows
of a woman’s hat; it’s all right to see
the worst reduced, as this snow is, to a
clumsy silliness no one could die from
or give up life distractedly sighing in,
but how close we are (still winter) to
what’s merciless, as some whisper in the
happiest times: even this if walked into
steadily, boots soaking through, eyes
filling with white, could bring us down,
as something will, we who thought we,
could endure anything, and almost did,
as everyone almost did, but didn’t, as
spring, that staggers as it walks among
the cold stench of bodies and brisk
heartless blooms, the damp gaps
between the aging trees, reveals.

Charlie Smith

Still Winter (Spring) Poem

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