30 poems in 30 days: 20

To Whom It May Concern

I would like to
lodge
a formal complaint.

On the morning of
April 20, 2013,
it should not be

a mere
29 degrees,
the flood puddle

in the back
frozen solid.
Nothing good

can come
of this.  No doubt
the fruit trees

are freaking,
their sap curdled
in their veins.

They won't blossom,
I fear,
and dark clouds will

descend,
bringing with them
more sideways snow

to  trouble
our Friday windows.
In this kind of

weather, the chill
settles into
nature's bones,

concentrating itself
into a meanness
that inevitably

turns murderous.