Villanelle in March

This is the season turning on its own
edge, heat to cold, but summer’s on the way
so the long slide to winter has begun.
Not to escape the cycle in its spin
we lurch, lean, balance, fatalistic, sway.
This is the season turning on its own
sore pole, north-south. An avalanche will run
its course, of course, upon us: great white way
down which the slide to winter has begun,
buried the hill, the steeple, houses, town.
Red shingles poke through the prevailing gray.
This is the season turning. On its own
path of destruction flowers turn to sun
shyly, afraid of what their fate will be
once the long slide to winter has begun.
Grass, trees—it all will grow. The time has flown
too fast: is fall tomorrow, spring today?
This is the season turning on its own
and the long slide to winter has begun.