Freezes, snows, blizzards –
going, going, gone. 

We whoop for thaws. 

On the mall’s shrunken mountain, on its 
slushy slopes and watery fringes come revelations: 

crushed plastic bottles gleaming in overdue sunshine;
in asphalt puddles Styrofoam cups that might be boats; 
and oh, poor scarf, winter’s prisoner, 
do it – wriggle away from your icy tether.

Rise as a March wind kite 
dazzling the city’s skyscape. 

© by Richard Swanson. 
Used with the author’s permission.