It is now Spring

SPRING POEM

I’ll title this thing Spring Poem

while birds sing loudly outside

at four thirty in the morning,

while a cool breeze comes through my open windows,

my kitchen almost one with darkness

save for a small lamp, that hopes foolishly

to someday be the sun,

while I write and fail

while I think that it may rain,

I’m no weatherman, cannot read skinny sticks

or the movement of stars, but the dark clouds tell it all

rain

rain

rain.