Sunday Morning in March

The mountains are hidden by a thick gray curtain of cloud.
Across the street wet brown naked apple boughs gently shake.
Between trees and me, confused winds swirl snow flakes,
Which quickly disappear in shallow pools on asphalt.
From my window I see people coming home from church:
Children pushing against wind walls and laughing into flying flakes,
Girls gaily feeling wind and snow against eyelashes and smiling teeth,
Boys wrapped in their bright boyhood talk, ducking into the wind,
Men and women walking steadly in winter coats and talking in Sunday voices,
Old people, faith-faced, measuring each step into wind and snow.