Snow
in May!
In the fullness of the day!
I could forgive
a violent vigorous squall
or a wind which bent all
the slowly budding trees;
but a frostful freeze
in May?

I could have sworn
that her skin
had been sufficiently
global-warmed
to avoid a glaciated
misappropriated
fall of snow,
after April’s
intermittent flow
of soothing showers.
But sleety spontaneity
and nonpredictability
(an isobaric target on the chart)
have stopped me
frigid
in my tracks
and icicled
the cockles of my heart.

In case you think I’m growing old
or losing all my childhood gold
I’ve always loved surprises
or an unexpected gift,
like making love at 3am
asleep… awake… your touch again;
by sudden lips pressed hard on mine
(so crazy that you spilled your wine)
a moisty mouthful meaty kiss
across a restaurant table’s width
above the smoky mackerel wisps
while plates and knives fell to the floor
and all the other eaters, shocked —
embarrassed by the fond furore —
avert their gaze with open-mouths
(a metaphor for how I feel
when looking through my window-glass
at this May snow spread on my grass.

[How I miss your crooked smile
which spread itself around my face
on that May noontime wild embrace])

Is snow in May as shocking as that kiss?
Have I the same right to be numbed
by whitened water-flakes on green
as they had to have faces frozen
by that steamy bistro scene?