Unless
the leaves on the trees turn red,
unless the squirrels find and hide acorns,
scratching beneath the surface of dirt,
unless the basil and tomatoes die at first frost,
unless the dull mums are planted,
their flowers close to the ground,
unless the storms come,
clouds loaded with moisture,
unless the snow flies,
unless the snowbirds leave
for Florida with RVs in tow,
houses up north shuttered and dim,
unless my shirt sleeves increase,
unless my mittens and boots get hauled
out of the closet, hats and scarves draped
over dining room chairs,
unless I get at least one snow day,
unless I skid on the ice, unless I go to California,
unless my cats blame me because they can't go
outside, their fur sticky with snow
if they do, their paws flicking
unless I see the mountain through the trees,
unless I complain at least seven times,
spring will never arrive.