..
this poem cannot wait
for spring, early
or otherwise.
it has winter things
to spill. snow and what
-not, from its icy quill.
no flake the same, they
say, but they
have not met her
frozen side. how much would
would a woodchuck
chuck, if he passed the buck,
shucked wood
(paper covers rock, after all)
and called it a day?
give the varmint
a pen, an unclouded sky,
let her shed her shoulds
from heavy shoulders,
let the day spill by.
it’s cold inside this Feb
-brew-airy
skin, and she doesn’t know
where to be
-gin.
..
Whimsygizmo's Blog 
May your poetry never see its shadow and go into hiding for any length of time. I always love your wordplay, the shifting time signatures (if you will) and the insistent imagery. You’re so fun to read.
I got to varmint and laughed out loud. I love that word and it was perfect to talk about a poem that cannot wait for spring.
A poem needs to spill its stuff no matter what the season. And some poems just beg to be written NOW!
Beautiful:
“it has winter things
to spill” … That whole second stanza, really.
And this:
“let her shed her shoulds
from heavy shoulders,
let the day spill by”
“it’s cold inside this fib” … Clever.
brew-airy … that’s a breeze plus a hot cup of coffee, which sounds blissfully refreshing
It must be hard to know where to be when you’re gin. 🙂
At once, clever and funny. You never cease to amaze me, De.