New England Spring

Spring never was as chill as it is now. There had been others when a spiky leaf, The hue of apple-green, leaped from the mulch Against the brown impoverished debris, The wind a canticle at earth's renewal.

How long ago that was, as if to tease All actuality : for snow has gone, As frost. What keeps is the astringent air, As every mound its gray-beard grass in clumps, Bristling and rough as an old man's chin.

To evening sky the evening star returns, Ascends once more to its elliptic node To prink the atmosphere, a frozen gem, Endazzled on the surface where it climbs. New England springs are colder than they were.