The smell of mown grass
is almost obscured by wind-
very faint perfume.

Winds rattle windows,
storm clouds are brewing; it seems
March leaves like a lion.

New, fuzzy leaf shoots
cover all the trees leaving
me lonely and blue.

I awoke to snow-
dusting the late March colors
and shocking the birds.

A torrent of rain
and plumes of fog grazing earth
driving through storm clouds.

Perfectly still sky-
like looking at the landscape
encased in glass air.

Soft shades of twilight
soften all the rough edges
with or without wine.

Just like that, dark skies-
Spring's a moody time of year
Wind and storm clouds race.

The oaks get leaves last-
thank goodness there is still sky
to see without leaves.

Green fuzz sprouts on trees
like a soft, fine hair making
old men become young.

Echos of thunder
bring the promise of lightnening
and pyrotechnics.

The mist on the lake
rises with a sliver light,
mirrored in stillness.

Rain in the darkness
pattering on the rooftop
waking me from dreams.

A lone nest swaying
at the top of naked trees
seems a fragile home.

Something wonderful
about the yellow flowers
burning in the vase.

An early spring fire-
green and bare outside with winds
that rattle old bones.

A cold, fresh wind blows
bringing with it a green smell,
waking the sleeping.

The cold rain has drenched
my yard's lone, yellow herald-
sad foresythia.

Streetlights have come on-
the soft pink glow of twilight
flirts with coming night.

A freezing cold rain-
miserable and soaked through,
I'm sad there was no snow.

The skies promise ice -
I must admit, cocoons of
snow sound heavenly.

The rain has not come;
the sky sags with heaviness,
but the clouds stay closed.

tumultuous spring
enters with early violence-
change requries action.

This springing forward
will mess up my sleep for weeks;
ruins my whole, damn day.

Every year from death,
rising like the phonex,
forsythias flame.

Warm breezes blowing
tossing around the night's stars
while they dream of spring.

Orange sunset burns
and soon I will be alone
with night, my old friend.

Branches sway wildly-
trying to free themselves, but
they're slaves to the wind.

I will miss winter's
bare, open solitude, and
the nearness of stars.

Cloudy winter night-
fingers dragged across the sky
letting in the cold.

Still, quiet snow dust
adds a certain solomness
to Sunday Morning.