I don’t mind the snow.

April’s fool arrives tomorrow,

but today each flake waifs down

in its own personal space.

A small squadron of geese

honk by, swirling the snow

in their wake.

They kept flying northeasterly.

Their laying bets spring

hasn’t gone anywhere.

It’s just an Indian winter,

flaps down.

So, to the white freckles on the wind

I say, “Enjoy your visit.”

Then I honk at them, “Get out of the way!”

And lean into spring again.