Snow in May

Even the snow knows it doesn’t belong.

The flakes swirl about in Dervish spins,
to get out of each-other’s way,

and avoid the cupped leaf hands of displeased oaks,
whose branches sway against the fray.

Now their parade has passed to blue,
and the street is clean of any trace,

the world returns to sanguine tunes,
resuming its languid summer chase.