Seasonal Shifts: A Villanelle Wrought in Slush
















A late March snowfall obscures the previously blue sky.
With scattered snow flakes graying out the sun.
No justice from puns and prose or even a desperate try.

Instead the rotating orb does not stop for even a mourning dove's elegiacal cry.
An old woman on the slushy sidewalk, dodging ice chunks, wishes winter was done.
A late March snowfall obscures the previously blue sky.

A muffled snore of a world never reborn nor showing its fragile eye
It slumbers in fits and starts that block out the ruminating sun
No justice from puns and prose or even a desperate try

Where are the frolicking foxes? Are the mousy bunnies too shy?
The places they once cherished, they now practically shun.
A late March snowfall obscures the previously blue sky.

The snow crunches beneath my feet even though I hoped to wish the season goodbye.
The icy touch of spring, an irony that's lost much of its fun.
No justice from puns and prose or even a desperate try.

Soon it will turn to slush and the seasonal aches will hie.
The language will change, and the rabbits of archaic punnery will run. 
A late March snowfall obscures the previously blue sky.
No justice from puns and prose or even a desperate try.










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