Bunching onions stand against the wind
That blows a cutting snow through tall green blades-
No Winter sun that only yesterday
Was hot now makes us seek uncommon shade.
While honest Winter made the touch of hands
To others’ hands a rarity for long,
That brief, false Spring of warmth no longer stands,
Betrayed by what was truer all along:
The cold is real though temporary heat
May sometimes call us to remove our gloves,
And not expecting harsh winds to return
Makes fools of us who open private loves.
Far better, then, to trust the warmth we know
That never leaves, and other hands forgo.