Well, I always prefer to wait to post new poems until I can record them, because I feel that poetry is an aural tradition, and that that is because sound remains a vital part of of the art form.  But, if I delay with this one, it will be very, very out of context.

So! I will tweak and record this one later, but for now, can someone please make the snow stop?

The First Day of Spring

I live in an arctic vortex.
If this is Spring, I’m buying Mother Nature a dictionary,
Like the one I just donated:
Gold dust cover.
Thirty pound words.
I’ll check, twice,
to make sure the word Spring is in it, and adequately defined.
I’ll mark it with yellow highlighter.
I’ll dog ear the page.

I’ll sneak into her house in the dead of night,
leave it on the bedside table with a single flower
and a note that reads:
‘I know you have a hard job,
and never get any appreciation.
Thank you for your continued efforts.’

‘PS- Since the work is so difficult,
I thought some study material might be helpful.
Please see the marked pages, if it’s not too much trouble.’

‘PPS – I also sent a globe, with clearly marked equatorial lines,
but it’s still trapped in the postal service,
on account of all the snow.’

The birds fly North, but don’t sing.
The sun sits, dumbfounded and dim, behind a cover of clouds,
like an overprotected child.
Salt is out of season.

You can’t even buy gloves at this time of year.

But, I’m sure, somewhere on the internet,
there is a tutorial on how to make snowshoes
out of ordinary household objects,
and this skill is going to become very popular,
while we sit,
with baited breath,
waiting for Spring.

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