Gray clouds on brightest blue
Slowly go thudding by.
So they buried Old Man Winter.
I say that he did not die.
The boring sun cannot blot out
The crimped dread from land and sky,
Tensing for a reckoning.
I'll burn again, by and by.
The bare trees stand straight, sky-pulled,
Against the wet and melting snow.
What has all winter clung to branch
And trunk, that makes all outlines glow?
It is not time for April rains
To lull the thing that clings to bed.
The God is on the land again,
And is singing in my head.