A Stolen Poem

What do we call this season?
Is it a season at all?
When winter is late, and still hasn't come,
When spring is still just a hope buried in the ground.
When the earth is ready for a blanket of white,
Just waiting in a bleak, beige, dry stage.
When Mother Nature's clock is broken
And the Earth's axis is one degree off.
When clouds don't offer a single drop of rain
To wake the flowers up and add color to the landscape.
But then the next day it starts to snow,
Finally a season claims Utah as its own!
(But I was hoping it would be Spring.)

-Golda's poem, shamelessly stolen from the blog she does for English.  
Love it, Golda!