Sonnet XXIV

Why can’t it hurry up? I wonder now.
It’s April and I see no shining sun.
No birds or butterflies or melting snow.
Impatience grows as winter forfeits fun.

And still a harsh wind, obstinate, persists.
The winter, stubborn, still stays starkly staid,
Or maybe spring, in guise, taunts cruelly yet
And masks its true intent with servile gales.

Spring seems to taunt and tease, being hot or cold.
It leaves all guessing what is happening.
A cruel and wicked jokester spring does seem
Instead of spreading joy and nurturing.

Spring uses subterfuge to slyly bring
The earth astray and going ‘round in rings.