The Fourth Nor’easter of March
Indignant neighbors all complain
that snow’s still falling and not rain
or sunshine flecking pale green hills
with pools of yellow daffodils.
They whine that winter won’t let go.
Weighed down with wet, belated snow
snapped branches mar the noiseless night.
Though dawn serves up a dazzling light
all value springs from scarcity;
snow’s pretty when a rarity.
No matter if the statue’s Greek
or if the storm’s a thrilling freak,
they’ve wearied of the ceaseless sight
of beauty that’s become antique.
Editor’s Note: This sonnet is a delightful lesson on the futility of complaints about the weather.
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