Writing a poem about winter
in the spring feels a tad out of place,
or perhaps "place" isn't the right word.
It's not that spring is the wrong "place" for
barren trees, snowdrifts, bows of holly,
or itchy, absurd Christmas sweaters.
Then again, I suppose that depends
on what you mean by "place," doesn't it?
And "spring" and "winter," for that matter.
In one sense, May is the wrong place for
February, but that seems far too
tortuous for a novice poet
to be overly concerned about.
Or any poet, for that matter.

Did Frost agonize nearly so much
when he first imagined Stopping by
Woods on a Snowy Evening, and
when did he write that one, anyway?
In my mind, he was on a horse who
appeared to balk at the notion of
resting so far from her warm stables,
"between the woods and frozen lake" on
"the darkest evening of the year."
But maybe he was in Mexico,
in July, drinking margaritas.
Maybe the "lovely, dark, and deep" woods
were clear remembrances of winter
promises still unkept through the spring.