Well, boys and girls, Punxutawny Phil saw his shadow this morning. Looks like six more weeks of Winter if you are a believer in Marmot prognostications. Happy Groundhog Day, anyway. Party on.
On the subject of weather, here's a rough draft of a new poem by yours truly:
IDES OF FARCH
Nancy Wayman Deutsch
Is it February, or is it March?
In Florida, it's hard to tell.
Neither Spring nor Winter
a time between Jingle Bells and colored eggs
mind scape of scarlet hearts and roses
morphing into shamrocks and green beer.
Mother nature misbehaving, yet again
such an indecisive coy, calendar girl,
changing her agenda from one day to the next
here and there, her azaleas blushing in pink profusion
while brittle branched oaks shiver in the wind.
Outside the window, my lawn wears cocoa and verdant green
Old Sol playing peek a boo with steely clouds
glowering gray at patch worked earth below.
Have the robins come and gone unnoticed
before drifting yellow pollen blankets all in sight?
Cocooned with book and candle,
I wait to be an April fool again
longing for steamy sultry days and golden sunsets
my bare toes digging into damp beachy sand
the raucous calling of gulls filling azure sky above.