The Last of Winter

When the dust comes

- fine Sahara sand borne on winds

no warmer than the desert night -

the sun hides, as elusive as a bluebird.

Just two days since -

- ere relentless rain born of storms,

no sooner black than lightning bright -

the sun shone, as adamant as Jehovah.

The gloom, the cold, the grey,

this could be a northern day.

And two days hence -

post- miseried murk borne with smiles,

no brighter than the spectral light -

the sun comes, as brilliant as in paradise.