Between Solstices

March has gotten into April.
Out of some northern nostril
streams the wind, sleek and chill,
slashing crocuses.

Two days ago I wore shorts
and cursed the humid prognostication
of another subtropical summer.
Now the message from north Texas plains
is that winter is not happy
with her usurpation.

The sky is gray as impending snow,
stalking the Gulf for any hint of heat.
My wooden sash windows rattle
in the revisionist wind--
I light the space heater.

Whatever men imagine,
spring is no gradual greening
but a violent compromise
between solstices.

C. E. Chaffin