Nar Spring to It

Feisty February’s frigid fare,
A favourite for long underwear,
Wages winter’s fiercest throes,
Raging on until it goes.

Then there’s March, a middling month,
which still has winter's woes to crunch;
with Sheila's Brush, crouched-down to touch,
and spring's eternal just a hunch.

April sometimes teases us,
But really isn’t up to much,
Except being wet, is sure, a bet,
And lingering snow that’s turned to slush.

May, elsewhere, is certainly spring,
But, here, it might be anything,
From winter’s cranky crops of snow,
Which, blackened, just refused to go.

June is spring, or summer’s first,
it’s hard to tell, just when it bursts;
‘cause, really, we don’t get at all,
much of its feel, until the fall.

  Submitted By: Robert LeMessurier