I feel like saying
that they have killed Spring this year,
that they've dug up fields of poppies
and replaced them with land mines,
dead-headed tulips before they could bloom,
smashed crocuses back into the ground
with the perpetually moving treads of tanks,
and sprayed daffodils with chemical weapons,
reducing our gardens into a moab desert,
but it's not true.

Woodchucks are out of their holes.
Sap is rising.
Forsythia is blooming.
Migrations have begun.
Around the world we have started a war,
but the season is right on schedule
Outside my window,
of red-winged black birds
cut the air above the fields
in search of grain left over
from last year's harvest
to consume,
an assault that's easy to watch.

Too late,
too soon,
Spring has come in spite
of winter.
Its heat and bright colors
will make me smile in spite
of myself.

Get on back to Irregular Times
How is Laura Bush the Accidental Patroness of Poetry?

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