Why It Isn't Spring Yet

Because we will it so. Because the song of traffic thrums

against the wrestle of city gristle and grime, disguised

and then revealed by March's greyed lens. Because we will it so.

There is a mansion of snow for the carnival players

who burn their scripts to improvise longing. Because we will it so.

Because a rose stampedes its red into the eye. Because paper,

when offered up for an autograph, deserves one, but not right away.

There is a pause. A breath. The absence glitters.

Because we will it so.