The Midst of March

Snow cloaks this white house
in a belated winter shower of
drizzle
and
flurries.

The vicious wind propels the flakes -
A snow globe.
White hits the ground, it thaws -
icy puddles on the pavement.

Can you see this?
Can you feel the cold front,
moving in with its
booming winds,
beating against this window?

As cars pass, I hear their wipers stir
pushing away the
fallen
snow.
Tires strike against freezing liquid -
billowing amounts
of fountain-like fingers in the air.

I want to play in this snow -
I’d rather feel what it’s like to stand out
in this dreamland
than to sit inside a tongue-tied house.

Still with its dreary green shutters
this aged house stands motionless -
camouflaged
against the last gasp of spring.