Cold Spring (Poetry)

It should be warm by now —
late April and still waiting for
the weather to be mild.

The pallid sun is dithering —
she pokes chill fingers here and there
and coaxes with a weak distracted smile

as though unused to mothering
the newborns in her nursery
she’s lost herself to clouds.

Winds rock the cradles but far cries
float feeble — anxious in the air
each bud a hungry child.