With deepest apologies to Horace, Keats, Shelley, Rossetti, and anyone else who ever created something beautiful. Also to my grandmother and my first-grade teacher, who expected better.
Season of clouds, of barren gray and dun
Close bosom-friend of darkness. What is sun?
A thing of faerie.
Bitterest wind, and snow on snow
Relentless misery in this line too, no place to go;
I cannot approve thee.
And yet I could forgive if thou hadst made thy peace
And by the end of February’d ceased
O winter, ah winter, canst not thou see
The month of March is not the place for thee?
Another thing I wish to say concerns your roads
I wouldn’t wish them on rats or pigs or toads;
They are despicable.
Snowplows, all unwitting, have spirited away thy concrete
And left a Swiss cheese where solid and gaseous meet
In random acts of violence.