Standing before her closet,Dressed in winter’s white robe,
Mother Earth asks Father Wind:
“Shall we warm up a bit today?
I'm longing for a little green
to add to my palette…”
He drops an airy kiss on upturned cheek
and murmurs in her ear, “Why not?”
then steps aside to watch, filling the room
with fragrant scent of spring’s cigar.
She shivers into a fetching frock,
autumnal browns fringed gold by warming sun,
pale grass embroidering a fluttery hem.
“Very tasty,” he smiles;
“Perhaps I'll add the scent of rain today –
I love to watch you ripen!”
But then she makes her annual mistake,
and off the groundhog scurries to his den:
"What do you think: does this grass make
my fundament look big?"
Hurt by his appreciative assent,
She doffs the dress and dons her snowy robe,
Storming back to bed in frigid fury.
He blusters; his cigar sends ashes flying, snowflakes on thick carpet:
Six more weeks of winter.
* * *
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