Mis-seasoned, by Jim Farfaglia
At the east end of the Oneida St. Bridge
in a vacant lot below,
collected from our drawn-out winter
rises a mountain of snow.
Added to truckload by truckload,
measured in yards, not feet,
formed from Mother Nature’s insistence
of blanketing our city streets.
November to March it gets piled,
‘til one day when crossing our river,
we look down at winter’s harsh toll,
its immensity sending a shiver.
Though our fancy calendars may tell us
its time to start living in spring,
we need only look from atop that bridge
to know which season’s still king.