Sonnet: The Fickle Season Poem by Richard St. Clair

It’s the second month of winter, and the snow
Is wet and heavy; birds from branch to snowy
Branch seem twitchy — who can blame them?
Though we
All know in our bones winter will go
And buds again will burgeon, blossoms bloom,
Despite how distant spring seems to remain,
The snow still falls but soon will turn to rain
Again, and spell the falling snowflakes’ doom.

The whitened landscape is so strange today —
Last week was warmer, not a trace of ice.
Today’s much colder. Think! How fare the mice,
The flighty sparrows, and the noisy jay?

The cruelest month is April? Yes, I reckon,
But this January stands to come in second.