Groundhog, you lie.
Two weeks since your optimism,
Then a northeast snowmageddon.
Now, this: more shoveling, base layers,
And a whiteout driving home from church.
From your hidey hole,
Whether in Punxsutawney or under my shed,
You feign to predict our meteorological future.
Your shadow hath not that power!
(At least consult your Farmer’s Almanac. )
Are we really so desperate?
That we hang our shirtsleeve-hopes
On an over-sized rodent?
(You are one, don’t deny it. Wiki says so.)
Garden nemesis! Spring tempter!
We continue on our orbit track;
93 million miles to the Sun
And a perpetually hot day.
Or, 31 rotations until vernal equinox
Says, definitively, “Spring is here.”
In the meantime, we divert ourselves
With valentines, presidents, repentance and leprechauns.
And I have been writing – oh yes, I have! –
Remembering a summer day by a lake;
A story I’ll share in a season’s time.
