False spring is not my favorite thing,
even though snowbells seem not to mind,
or peepers who sing despite crusted frost,
or birds on the wing looking for nests,
or the household ladybug on kitchen sink
behind which a shrew coyly hides,
evading all three mouse-chomping cats.
False spring is like a child’s snapped balloon string,
or a crystal vase crashing to splinters,
or a toy car crushed by crackling winter boot,
or that chugging whine of dead car battery.
It’s a temporary infatuation deflated,
an extra monthly auto payment,
frustration at a lost, important document.
Yet false spring will not survive Eastering,
much less the soon joyful daffodil’s flowering...