Not warm enough
for branches to bud,
not cold enough
for snow.
So we get skeletons
and drizzle.
And roads that shudder
silvery wet
like exposed nerves
of dead men.
So what's the story for today.
Rows of chimney
coughing up
the dregs of warmth.
Bloom-less gardens.
Fence poles sagging in the mud.
A sky the color
of a mourner's ashen face.
On one front lawn,
a rusty bicycle.
Either forgotten
from last November.
Or what the weather
rode in on.