The climate’s crispy cool compared to late.

Does it herald harsher heavens just ahead?

Or is this colder air that’s warming now

Winter weather waning, wimpy now,

Promising petunia pots and poppies soon?

There’s a day comes once or twice a year

With cryptic air that can’t be walked in—

Not with normal senses unconfused by

Temperatures that seem to fanfare fall

Yet could be hints of spring to one who’s

Dizzy drunk on balmy promises implied.

Most days’ promises are relatively clear.

You know which season’s clothes to store

By simple signs of snow or sleet or sun.

But what’s this sneaky day? It’s air is on the cusp!

No calendar to check, I’m momentarily dazed.                         

Will this warmish cool fade to fair, or does it go for grim?

Aromatic hints I hunt, a trace of burnt leaf wafting

Or whiff of pollen pest, to see which it all portends.

You are an equinoxal riddle, dear, intoxicatingly unclear!

Your cool but sunny ways hold hidden hints that I can’t crack.

When and how will you reveal which season ‘tis you deal?

Is it summer coming, my arms around your naked waist, locked in hot embrace?

Or will it be me perplexed with winter next, bundled up in blankets for my heat?