[John Riley]

Cold Comfort

Far too much is said of Spring.
Each year poets stretch their fingers
and type out their latest paean
to green leaves and bouncing birds

while we of the cold glow feel a fire
burning and rising from our gut as we read
how the fools cheer the death of winter,
ignoring how the snow banks waver

when the tilted sun fulfills
its slipping duty and casts wide shadows
on the far side of the mound so white
we walkers wonder if it might disappear.

Now we must feel hot sun and wind, and disdain
for the people laughing and twirling in the spring rain.


Old fashion topic, old fashion poem