the winter that wasn't

oh coat closet, whose door remains shut,
save for the briefest of days in a week
when the air is brisk,
what you must be thinking?
this is the second winter that wasn't.

snow is not raining from the skies:
it is only raining. again.
the ground is soggy and yellow,
and the cherry trees are blooming.
everything is scratching its head;
no one is certain what season
this might be.

yesterday, young men played football
bare-chested in the park,
as though their wait through the cold
had been postponed, or
entirely called off.
another winter that isn't,
another january of seventy degrees
and blue skies.
the cherry trees are blooming;
no one is certain what season
this might be.