Winter's Ghost

Well, the calendar says Spring has sprung.

Even the birds seem too lonely to sing,
hopping across the frozen, snow clad lawn
as the last days of winter stubbornly cling
in the harsh, piercing white light of dawn.

An abandoned rusted swing idly sways
in the breath of a whispered breeze.
Another in a series of endless days,
slowly, winds through leafless trees.

Dog days of Summer, how I miss you,
long for sweet lemonade shade afternoons,
and sultry New Orleans evenings too.
I long for warmth and Louisiana moons.

Snow drifts deep around fence posts,
gales tumble shapeless winter ghosts.