The Sting of Spring
I sulk in solace by the ember’s glow
of warming hearths that temper to the bone
then wait in earnest ‘til the thaw of snow
and all the piercing winter winds have blown.
I wait the breeze that lifts each feathered wing
of vernal robins beckoning the day,
and when their songs rejoice the birth of spring,
‘tis time to store my winter quilts away.
Though such a nuisance swarms within the wake
of winter’s gloom ascending into light,
and if a taste of me they must partake,
‘tis worth the gnawing pester of their bite.
When buzzing hordes awake to spring’s retreat
to fend their sting, dare not forget the DEET.
2-11-23
Copyright © Mark Massey | Year Posted 2023
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