It's about six weeks until Spring, but we have a sunny day and brutal winds.
As promised, here is a poem by Dave Smith:
The Spring Poem
Everyone should write a spring poem—Louise Glück
Yes, but we must be sure of verities
such as proper heat and adequate form.
That’s what poets are for, is my theory.
This then is a spring poem. A car warms
its rusting hulk in a meadow; weeds slog
up its flanks in martial weather. April
or late March is our month. There is a fog
of spunky mildew and sweaty tufts spill
from the damp rump of a backseat. A spring
thrusts one gleaming tip out, a brilliant tooth
uncoiling from winter’s tension, a ring
of insects along, working out the Truth.
Each year this car, melting around that spring,
hears nails trench from boards and every squeak sing.