Hoax

This hoax is getting out of hand
spring has sprung throughout the land
from spring that never fell
to fall, much less any wintry span
of a few days, certainly not a fortnight;
although there have been five cold nights,
but seventy met before the noon bell—
what the hell? I wonder just how upside
down the seasons must stray
or disappear to make a flatlander say
it might be round; and although not Hell,
it’s definitely warmer: and hell to pay.
As glaciers retreat and forest fires rage,
I sing the blues for no blues on the weather page.