Father Winter

Sheds the chilly wetness of his cloak

Full force

Upon cowering January,

His harsh temperament

Cursing bleak February in ebbing strength;

Then, with cold rage at death’s nearness,

He shakes out the last clumps of ice

Upon shivering March

To trudge grimly up the mountains

In snowy retreat.

Baby Spring

Lifts in surprise his green head

To cry at daddy’s departure;

He ducks beneath limb and tree intermittently

With each lessening storm;

And then, creeping forth on shy feet,

Spring grasps the remains of Winter’s fallen cloak,

Wrings it out upon grateful April,

And with fresh shoots of confidence

Lifts the scepter of his rightful throne.