A Cloud Shadow
by Robert Frost

“A breeze discovered my open book
And began to flutter the leaves to look
For a poem there used to be on Spring.
I tried to tell her “There’s no such thing!”

For whom would a poem on Spring be by?
The breeze disdained to make reply;
And a cloud shadow crossed her face
For fear I would make her miss the place.”

So far, Spring 2013 has proved to have a mind of its own. One day warm, the next, cold; one day threatening rain, the next day, snow. One day there is glorious sunny stillness; the next the wind whips my hair and pelts me with stinging dust.

What Frost is saying here, I believe, is that there is nothing definitive about spring. That time of year is not characterized by hot or cold, or rain, or snow. Each Spring is an entity all its own, unpredictable. As humans, we love some days, and dislike others. We fall asleep to rain, and wake up to glorious sun. We walk beneath a layer of cotton clouds, or bitingly blue skies. We walk in rain; we scurry through sleet and snow.

I don’t believe anyone can write the definitive spring poem, unless it is possible to write a poem in one word:
Unpredictable.