Late November Grass

I will not be fooled by
green shoots in November
and all unfathomable things
that present themselves
in unfathomable times.

What first caught my eye
were the lobes of hesitant
columbine brushing aside
the ferns, stiff as brooms
or chimney sweeps.

And then, unreasonable
birds, paused on a wire
and all the ballyhoo of hope.
I shoo them away, but they
return iridescent.

Even a wasp, startled
by a sun that should
by all other measures
provide no heat but rather
mock a frozen soil,

Staggers up the garage
wall to a frazzled nest
and waits. I think, what fools.
But then again, who would not
take even the con of spring —

The least and fleeting hint of it,
while I, boiling in a parka,
refute such things.

Image: Rineshkumar Ghirao on Unsplash