The sun came to in late December. Spring
Seemed just the thing that flattered into bloom
The murdered shrubs along the splintered fence.
The awnings sagged with puddles. Roads were streams.
Wet leaves in sheets streaked everything with rust.
The man who raked his lawn transferred a toad
Too small to be a toad back to the woodpile.
In the countryside, he thought he spied the trust
That perished from his day to day relations.
His head was like a shoebox of old pictures,
Each showing in the background, by some fluke,
Its own catastrophe: divorce, lost friends,
A son whose number he could not recall—
This weather, nothing but a second fall,
Ending, if somewhat late, just how fall ends.
Each day that week he sat outside awhile
And watched his shadow lengthen, disappear.
Then winter followed through its machinations,
Crept up and snapped the green head off the year.