March is leaving;
No one’s grieving.
Too soon to cheer.
I’m not believing
Spring is here
Until, say, May;
Months lie this year.
Snow Folk: We’ve enjoyed
Playing with your product, but
We’re done with it now.
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.
Just about the time
You stop thinking about work
Your vacation ends
New Year’s Day is one
February 8th is two
And today is three
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?
Bob doesn’t say much
But when he does, people hear
What they want to hear
Dry bread with grease:
Toast with butter:
Swiss cheese socks are hard to darn
Unless you use a dairy yarn
Of mozarella or tenili;
And brie’s just silly.