On a Cold Rainy Day In Spring

Sunday sonnet

Photo by William J Spirdiione

The day began with just a spit of snow,
of mostly smallish pebbles, purest white,
on ice-encrusted garden paths and know
it’s raining now and melting fast while quite

a bit of looking down is going on
there, everywhere, not thinking much about
an emptiness that nature has forgone
and finding most abhorrent, yes, no doubt,

as chickadees and juncos join the choir,
out in the drip, drip, drip, they settle down,
house sparrows chirp, chirp, chirp from in the briar,
while nuthatches walk down the wet and brown

and rough bark of a silver maple tree,
while singing wha-wha-wha, gravity free.

Photo by William J Spirdione