The arctic always greets us one more time
in April, pasting petals to concrete.
Replaying slaps of winter, we sublime
to cold without between, and every street
is blossom-plastered, every bark is damp,
the sky is an enclosing pewter dome.
Arising after dawn I need a lamp.
The creek is oil-spiked and capped with foam.
I seem to be alone enjoying storm.
My fellow citizens remain within
or bundle like it’s trouble staying warm,
but I’m outside and noticing my skin
adores this temperature. Today’s a dance
of winter, while the spring awaits its chance.