loose wreck
of late March,
nature is no pleasing,
no delicate thing—
in fact,
she looks more like
a fiending addict,
a mess.
If figures:
the enfant terrible
of the seasons
has once again
confronted us with
"difficult art."
All who dare look
upon the wet
fecund dross
of her latest, most
haphazard canvas
must wonder: am I looking
at the end of something?
Or is this just
the start?
