Fool Me Twice

March is leaving;
No one’s grieving.
April’s near;
Too soon to cheer.
I’m not believing
Spring is here
Until, say, May;
Months lie this year.

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Inertia Is A Property Of Matter

It isn’t that I’ve meant to be
Persistent, but consistency
Resists through its momentum most
Of what could turn a streak to toast–
Assuming toast is something bad
And not that awesome snack you had
While battling procrastination
And the hollowed-out sensation
That your last idea’s gone
And left your brain with nothing on
Beyond a neon VACANC sign
(The final letter’s out on mine)–
E.g., this verse you’re reading now,
Which, through no fault of mine, somehow
Has kept my writing streak intact
Without my active input. Fact.

Mai Fidarsi Di Una Marmotta

Spring is busting out despite
The weather’s holding winter tight
For long past when the groundhog said,
L’inverno è morto! (“Winter’s dead!”)
Perhaps the blame deserves to fall
On climate change; could be it all
Is fallout from Chernobyl–I
Don’t know or, honestly, care why
Until I’ve figured out since when
Do groundhogs speak Italian?