From the depths of some magnificent imagination
came the realization, in the night,
that the world is not all that it should be.
We are shocked, though, two weeks
into this month of spring, to wake
to morning snow white and heavy,
a disguise creeping along the road,
up the northwest bark of the black maple trunks.
The pristine coldness frightens even optimists:
it is not us, it cannot be like us.
Sun and melting, when they come, are a relief:
to be confronted with the sinlessness
of a light snow squall in April can only
make us ashamed to show our true colors.