505
The Angling April Fools
Feathery snowflakes floating
blowing among still-tight blossoms
and the hopeful
verdant birch catkins and anxious budding willow,
bending, like we are
towards the snow melt rushing water.
Holding, like we are
for a sign of life or mercy.
Rime ice, hoar frost in snake running guides
freeze the rods and the fingers
of the annual April fooled,
a playful mockery of our fleeting sense
of seasonal destiny
and order.
Read More poems from the New York Almanack HERE.
