It is not Spring. It’s winter. Everyone in attendance is chilled and shaking. Not even dark suits and dresses can warm them. Yes, buds are opening, wild flowers peeping through the emerging grasses. But that’s just nature. Its seasons cycle. Ours come and go.
About the Poet:
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in
That, Dalhousie Review and North Dakota Quarterly with work
upcoming in Qwerty, Chronogram and failbetter.