Snow, I shout,
this should not be so:
Prayers and flowers should be blooming
Horizons must glint with light
divine and not divine in comparable measure:
Not snowfilled lines blurred by nature’s
The crudeness of an Easter Sunday
blemished by weather from another month:
The purity of colorless, emotion-ridden trust
In spring’s faith.
When prevalent weather
flaunts its free-will choices so:
Answers come as so much measured grooming
Free to me.
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