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It’s Spring, people!
How can anyone write poetry in spring!
I should be outside
I want to go
across the street to the park
and roll in the grass
take off my shoes and play tag
bask in the sun like a lizard
dipping my toes in the water.
Why am I inside?
Winter is the time for poetry
when outside means ‘brr’
when you can sit by a fire without feeling guilty
Not now!
Not when every leaf, every tree
every rock
is saying ‘Get up!
Work is over; Spring is here!
Get up!’
This is a time for yelling,
not for sitting inside
not for poetry.