ON THE LAST DAY OF MARCH
The wind has wielded a brush and comb
To tease the clouds in all directions
Extracting fragile transparent film,
Wafting it over an azure canvas.
Stubborn diminishing drifts of snow
Persist in sullen sordid ranks
Along the gravel encrusted roads,
Reluctant to cede their prominent place
However much we wish them gone.
Meanwhile the red capped finches have come
To check out the top of my tall blue spruce
The site of their last year’s nest and brood,
And the first two turkey vultures arrive
To circle above the neighborhood:
I will lift up mine eyes for signs of spring.
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