Dreams of Thin Skirts

Someone just wrote an ode to spring

and I am furious.

Stupid tease.

Taunting with dreams of whispered breezes

lifting up the thin skirts of girls

with long legs striding across the grassy quads,

laughing with their heads thrown back,

arms linked,

hair tangled by that self-same breeze…

When all around the snow falls harder and harder

suffocating so the only sound is not birdsong

but the muffled curses

as someone falls on an icy pavement

(exposing nothing interesting, wrapped as they are in

multiple Chicago layers)

and someone else works to scrape snow and frost

off a windowshield

with frozen ungloved hands.

Winters in this city are long

and the joy of pink sunset sky over

a field of white and crystal trees

is fleeting

against the bitter cold.