The End of Winter

The moon cradles its swollen belly
Hung low over the mountains.
Geese feed among the dry, dead cornstalks.
The sky holds snow
And my black pumps are not up to the task.
A robin lies dead in the middle of the road
The wind futilely tickling its redbreast feathers.
I am dressed in funereal colors.

There is so much
And yet there is nothing
To mourn.