Late Frost

The weather app swore, 'Spring is here.'

But the windshield at nine

was a frosted-over tear.

Another damn warning, hard to define.

Like a promise broken, or just delayed.

The sun, thin and pale, couldn't cut through.

Out on the lawn, where the grass blades played,

one bent one, caught, still held a brittle hue.

Just a sharp, glinting edge, a tiny spear.

It wouldn't give up, wouldn't let go.

Felt like something in me, held too dear,

refusing to melt, refusing to grow.