They say spring is here, but spring is slow. 
The moon has done her work—
Tugging the tides, thinning the darkness—
Yet here, in “Almost Canada”, winter feels like the default setting,
Snow is more familiar than bare ground.
I try to remember that every season has its ups and downs, 
Its small mercies and minor cruelties. 
Still, this time of year taxes my patience.
Spring around here negotiates—poorly.
It shows up with a clipboard and a vague sense of optimism,
Then immediately gets shoved back into the car
By a white cold windchill.
The forecast becomes a roulette wheel: 
Sixty degrees at noon, a personal attack by 3 p.m., 
And by bedtime you’re Googling 
Whether “snow pellets” counts as emotional abuse.
The sun stays out longer just to watch you get your hopes up,
And the driveway turns into that special April mix 
Of black ice, gravel, and regret.

By Diane E. Dockum
©April 2, 2026