Fickle Spring

A sunbeam dances on my drive,
Where snowflakes danced yesterday
Birds on the feeders so alive,
A harbinger of May.

It’s April’s way, though fickle March,
Had instigated change,
When pussy willow, budding larch,
Leaf out in ways so strange.

Like a teen, the pre-bloom bud,
Is half-adult, half-child,
Beauty, deceiving, obscured by mud,
Ushers in delicate flowers wild.

One day, it’s like February,
The next, disguised as May;
Warm, blissful, fickle or contrary,
Let’s bask in the real—today.