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Sonnet to Winter

by Mary B. McArdle

It seems as though the leaves are off the trees,
A distant sun in pasty skies abounds;
The mischief that the Autumn winds have done
Has scattered mounds of litter on the ground,

Which dry, then die, then crackle into crumbs;
And chilling deluges their victories win,
Until Midwinter comes and slivered ice
Collects upon the remnants flat and thin.

There’s coverings of snow from frequent storms;
False February days bring welcome warmth
That tempt us into planting early seeds
Or fool us into cleaning out the hearth.

March, April, May — why don’t the robins sing?
The prior Season’s overridden Spring.

Copyright © 2012 by Mary B. McArdle

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