Wednesday Poetry Prompts: 432

For today’s prompt, write a spring poem. Maybe it feels like spring in your neck of the woods. Maybe it feels like a second (or third or tenth) wave of winter. According to the calendar, the first day of spring was yesterday, sooooo…

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Here’s my attempt at a Spring Poem:

“fresh soil”

i can feel it between my fingers
& smell the black earth ready
to take in seeds & tiny plants

the sun stays a little longer
each day as if to say it’s time
to return to your sacred roots

& it doesn’t matter if flowers
or veggies or strawberries
because everywhere every

thing is springing back to life

*****

Robert Lee Brewer is Senior Content Editor of the Writer’s Digest Writing Community and author of Solving the World’s Problems (Press 53). His favorite season is actually autumn, but spring sets the fall into motion.

Follow him on Twitter @RobertLeeBrewer.

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149 thoughts on “Wednesday Poetry Prompts: 432

  1. LCaramanna

    Spring Time

    The watch on my wrist,
    an antique timepiece,
    measures moments
    as minutes move to hours
    in circular motion of gears
    that grind to a halt
    if I do not wind the spring.
    Some days I wind tighter
    to speed the rotation
    of imperfection’s consequences.
    Other days I wind not at all,
    as surrounded by bliss
    spring time stands still.

    Lorraine Caramanna

  2. MargoL

    A little folly in the spring

    A little folly in the spring
    Is healthy even for a king
    The splendour of his gown
    Is admired by his queen
    His canvas is painted in green
    Acknowledging it as his own

    © Margo, March 2018

    O to be

    O to be a butterfly
    I’d glide to exotic places
    across oceans and mountains – so high –
    and fluttering back down to green spaces.

    I’d move thereby
    taking in sunsets breathlessly,
    waking up to the sound of birds chirping
    while enjoying the fragrance of flowers blooming.

    All of this, before venturing out in the sky
    to as many places as my wings would take me.
    Just to start all over again
    the next day…O to be.

    © Margo, March 2018

  3. Growlighten

    the thing about spring
    is how it bounces – a pogo stick –
    up down up down up
    one two one two one

    how high can you go? how many?
    what would you give
    for another spring?
    another season passing?

  4. JRSimmang

    When the Ground Warms

    Outside
    on the patio,
    when it’s just cold enough
    to wear a sweater,
    talk with me about the
    longer days,
    about the wine and the
    Revival,
    about country music
    when there was still country
    unexplored,
    about how
    when birds fight
    they plummet to the ground
    or if when they land
    they lay on their backs clutched in each others’ talons
    pecking and cawing and rolling
    until one dies or gives,
    then speak with me
    about the abundance of life
    and when the winter ends, people will still perish.

    We, too, will perish.

    It is the only predictable story,
    for even though the snow falls
    because of the distance from the sun,
    we are still falling into it.

    Aren’t there less glorious ways to fall?

    Come,
    let us sit
    and chat in our warm sweaters,
    and toast to the sun.

    -JR Simmang

  5. grcran

    spranging it

    fall fell and then when winter went
    spring sprang the green things grew apace
    daytime surpassed the night sun bent
    sad snowflakes back to creeks and lakes
    and aquifers all percolat-
    ed purified the aitch two oh
    so undermountain flow grew great
    drinking spring sprang the afterglow

    gpr crane

  6. MET

    Not into them

    A poet once wrote
    In spring a young man’s fancy
    Turns to love….
    It appears to be true
    Of an old man’s fancy also.
    This spring one man badgered me
    Trying to get my attention…
    He got it all right…
    I told him he annoyed me
    Like someone scraping their fingers
    Down a chalkboard.
    Then he got angry, and
    Said in mock concern
    I needed help.
    I shut the door on him.
    Another had a son
    Who in his teens
    Needed a mother, and
    Was an angel.
    Now I knew that wasn’t the truth…
    Who of us were angels
    In our teens, and
    Starting a romance
    With my son needs a mother
    Is just wrong.

    I have always like the attention
    Of men, and unlike some
    I have not minded a whistle, or
    A risqué comment
    In friendly banter…
    For I can match
    Comment for comment,
    And if a man can eye me…
    I figure I can also eye him.

    But alas for these two
    I am not into someone
    Stalking me, nor
    Someone wanting my services
    To care for a child…
    He doesn’t want to change
    His life so he can parent him
    One on one.
    I am simply not into either one.

    Mary Elizabeth Todd
    March 23, 2018
    this spring has been interesting to say the least… I know most will not read this because it is too late for most… but sort of had to get this one out of my head

  7. Ann M

    What spring is this?
    Frost on the ground,
    birds shrieking like crazy.
    The drawbridge is stuck
    in the up position,
    leaving no way
    for the train to cross
    the river, or us
    to make amends.
    In the garden,
    the azalea collapses
    under wet snow.
    Your boots drag
    mud inside.
    I open the shades
    for the sun, when
    and if it ever comes.

  8. Glory

    SPRING

    Green leaves unfurl
    With the warmth of summer sun.
    And below the sturdy oak
    Yellow daffodils are nodding their heads
    Spring arrives early
    And fills the world with wonder.

  9. Glory

    SPRING

    Green leaves unfurl
    With the warmth of summer sun.
    And below the sturdy oak
    Yellow daffodils nod their heads
    Spring arrives early
    And fills the world with wonder.

  10. Karen

    Not a crocus in sight
    this first day of spring
    no sighing with elation
    as little buds tease

    A changing of seasons
    and naught to celebrate
    no peeking of tulips
    through hard crusty ground

    Remnants of snowmen
    bent out of shape
    extra blankets on the bed
    to keep warm overnight

    as a crisp winter breeze
    whistles sarcastically

  11. Nancy Posey

    March

    I love Spring most in the early days of March
    when warm weather teases, daring the ground hog
    to forecast six more weeks. I steal daffodils
    from lawns of strangers and flower beds of banks.
    I haul my coats and sweaters, woolens, boots
    to the basement closet, tempted by sleeveless
    tops and dresses, by swimsuits and sandals.

    I force myself to wait to plant my annuals.
    I wander through the lawn and garden section
    like a shopping addict—Big Boys, Kirby cukes,
    green peppers, even tender leaf lettuce—
    knowing the likelihood of another freeze.

    Snow on forsythia makes a lovely photograph
    but bed sheets protecting my rose bushes
    from frost have less charm. Mid-March,
    I count back, trying to recall if she came in
    like a lion or like a lamb, discounting
    superstitions that point to more winter.

    How can one month—even a long one—
    serve as a sampler for all four seasons,
    a meteorological smorgasbord? Taunting,
    March teases, tests to see how much
    I can take without casting longing eyes
    toward April.

  12. Connie Peters

    Spring

    Birds tweeting, lambs frolicking, fawns nibbling
    Geese flying north, bunnies scampering
    Winter coats transform to sweaters
    Tulips, violets, buttercups
    Easter celebration
    Robins tugging worms
    Trees greening up
    Drenching rains
    Late snows
    Mud

  13. MET

    Ten Springs Have Come

    That last spring for you
    I waited…
    Waited for you to leave….
    For there was no doubt
    You were going and
    Waited for the dogwoods to bloom.
    I watched the Robins
    Come and eat the red berries.
    Then the bulging buds
    Began to creep open…
    Then the tiny green blooms
    Opened and day by day
    They grew large and white.
    Clouds of them, and
    Your last visit to see
    Your lovely dogwood blooms
    I stayed inside crying
    For I knew it was your last time.
    Your face glowed….
    Joy does shine.
    I felt yours flow into me.
    I knew my prayer that last fall
    To give you one more time
    To see the dogwoods bloom
    Was worth all the pain my heart carried.
    Ten years I have watched
    For the buds to bulge;
    The tiny green flowers
    That turned into clouds of white.
    Each time I felt that joy
    Flow into me
    As I did that last spring.

    Mary Elizabeth Todd
    March 22, 2018

  14. MET

    Signs of Spring

    The wind blew hard and cold,
    This first day of spring.
    This March has roared
    Through my forest.
    I could hear the crashing of limbs.
    The pollen from the pine trees
    Formed a loose cloud
    That morphed into a ball
    Racing down an alley to strike
    Those in its way.
    Still I know it is spring
    Despite the cold.
    For the daffodils are blooming,
    Shivering in the wind, and
    Early this morning
    I heard the pileated woodpecker
    Beating out a beat
    Rat-tat-tat-tatata
    Reverberating through leafless trees
    From the hollow.
    And on one of those very warm nights
    I heard the song of tree frogs
    After a rain.
    Today I cough and sneeze, eyes water.
    Yes, spring has arrived.

    Mary Elizabeth Todd
    March 22, 2018

  15. Jrentler

    i’ll come through in spring

    when the sludge is gone
    when rain’s washed
    all to green

    grass, leaves
    & flowers yawn

    stalks dew drunk
    branches stretch
    chicks will song new songs

    when patios bake
    & hammocks wheeze
    like grandma gin gin

    ants explore the pages
    as new born bumblers
    dare each other
    to try my coffee

    then, motek, then
    i’ll come through in spring

  16. SarahLeaSales

    The American Spring of Mrs. Jones

    Her life was a brimful,
    her family,
    a handful.
    So many things divided her attention,
    commanding it,
    and she fought the distractions
    as if they were dragons,
    slaying them with more commitments—
    all because she felt that her time
    to make the most of herself was
    running out.

    She’d seen it all coming—
    this season of late nights in the library,
    studying,
    of numerous hours in the tutoring lab,
    working,
    fighting the mind and memory
    that seemed to work against her sometimes.
    But she had prepared for it
    like a Doomsday prepper,
    when something
    no one
    could have seen coming,
    slammed her from behind,
    scattering her
    like the loose-leaf sheets of her textbooks
    that fell out of her broken binders.

    She’d been so consumed with being productive—
    reading,
    writing,
    and trying to figure out a curious sort of arithmetic,
    trying to tie the ends together that didn’t quite meet,
    that she didn’t,
    couldn’t,
    allow herself to think about anything else.

    When that crash happened,
    it was as if the universe had made a terrible mistake—
    as if what was happening now
    wasn’t supposed to happen
    until twenty years from now.

    And though her life,
    as she lived it,
    changed little,
    her world seemed so sad and strange,
    yet she still heard her child’s laugh
    in the next room.

    1. Anthony94

      Some powerful recollections here–/scattering her, like the loose leaf sheets of her notebooks/… I lost a wonderful music teacher to Early Onset and had to present her Elegy…. this really strikes a chord! Wonderful and tragic.

  17. lsteadly

    When Earth Awakes

    Looking out my window I wouldn’t know
    winter has been ousted according to
    my calendar but not the depth of snow
    resting thick upon fields in lieu of dew

    Nor have the robins, wrens or chickadees
    arrived en masse to fill the air with song
    the sun not yet warm enough to bud trees
    but promises to let day’s light last long

    to slowly melt the ice that clings in shade
    and set the sap to run in maple groves
    I dream of turning soil with my spade
    and hear the cries of geese return in droves

    Then under blueing skies the softened earth
    will blush and bloom and sigh at her rebirth

  18. Amy

    Chickens and Eggs

    I am
    she proclaims between her braids.
    My spring chicken; march bloom,
    you wield your wonder and dress
    in the sweet scent of late April rain.
    Stay here, I beg.
    Remain.
    Puddle jump and lay claim to
    cumulus parades, to the bees
    that split the world into seeds,
    seeds into flowers,
    flowers into brazen bodies
    that turn to their work,
    something resembling a spring storm
    swelling their symbolic skirts
    and all four chambers of my heart
    suddenly burst. Soon, we will
    collide and stay our separate selves
    and while I swear I’m still sifting
    Cheerios from my hair, darling
    you’ll be autumn bound and aloof.

  19. De Jackson

    small blooms

    thou answerest them only with spring – E.E. Cummings

    too soon,
    these skies will make themselves
    known as pirate waters: tumultuous,
    stirred dark and deep. steeped in
    skeletal clouds and masthead thunder.
    we’ll wonder how we ever found the sun.

    but today,
    we swallow all this distant gray and
    unearth the laughter bursting from soil,
    these petaled breaths that stir us into
    something more. these startled songs
    of crimson, yellow, scarlet as a sunset.

    we hold
    these tiny things, these quiet-budding
    hopes and grounding dreams, in hearts
    that just begin to thaw, still raw and sleepy
    in their winter coats. still puffy-eyed and
    mostly silent, waiting for the kiss of spring.

    ::

  20. taylor graham

    GRAY OF GREEN

    Familiar of our hill in every season,
    the ghost pine haunts another spring. It’s March,
    raining at last, after a dry winter. The day
    is ghost-pine gray. Deciduous oaks are leafing
    out to match wild grasses rushing the pasture.
    Buckeye’s already gaudy with green. The ghost
    pine stands disheveled, coat of old-man drab;
    gaunt needle-fingers fumbling a breeze. So many
    forks of trunk, you’d think it couldn’t decide
    which way to point the sky. Still
    standing for another spring, ever-green
    in gray-tone, a survivor.

  21. Not-Only But-Also Riley

    Cherry Tree

    Every year it’s considered
    whether that ancient tree,
    with its trunk and branches
    growing green, and losing
    the chocolate of their youth,
    should just be pulled away,
    put out of its misery, but
    Every year, that ancient tree
    blooms with bright flowers
    and fat cherries that will
    always taste like spring.

  22. thunk2much

    hope

    I hope those shriveled daffodils
    – the ones we walked by quickly,
    our hands shoved into pockets
    and our breath floating upwards –
    come back and spring us to life
    with their yellow dispositions
    and promises of carefree days
    one blossoming into the next

  23. Kateland

    Wishes for Spring 3-20-18

    It snowed on all the Leprechauns
    The shamrocks lost their spring
    The rainbows hid behind a cloud
    The birds forgot to sing

    March is made for merry-make
    Flowers on their way
    But this March did spring forsake
    Late the snow still lays

    If I could have one spring-time wish
    Wish be on its way
    When Easter comes, then let the sun
    Come out and melt away

    Come melt the cold and ice and flakes
    And bring forsithia bloom
    Round easter eggs and crosses won
    And joyous sun agleam

    Come honour endless King enthroned
    By springtime revelrie
    Who rose and on all people shone
    The new life made in thee

  24. Heather

    between winter and spring

    It’s in the air
    the scent of soil
    fresh from the thaw.
    A pungent aroma
    of residual decay
    and worm guts,
    it awakens the senses
    numb from frostbite,
    priming them for
    an inundation of floral aromas.
    The returning thaw cycle melts snow,
    overflows rivers and fields,
    makes sap run
    and saturates the earth,
    more mess than miracle.
    Temperatures rise,
    transforming white landscapes
    into dull beiges
    of dead grass and dry dirt,
    the undressed state of in between.
    Flashes of bright green
    animate the world.
    Tree buds and those first shoots,
    the lightning before
    the impending colour storm.

    ~ also published at heatherbutton.com

  25. Jane Shlensky

    To A Finch in Snowfall

    His golden feathers mock him now,
    half winter dun, half daffodil,
    the other feeder birds still in
    brown overcoats, dark mufflers,
    mottled sweater vests, red caps.

    Like wearing a Hawaiian shirt
    on the frozen tundra, he is ill dressed
    for snowfall. Even cardinals,
    ablaze on white, deny him
    access to seeds, and hordes
    of sparrows and mouthy wrens
    inhabit the perch, squatters
    on valuable real estate, dislodged
    only by squirrels and sapsuckers.

    This fluffy snowfall ushers in spring,
    its cotton batting snuggling narcissus
    and hyacinths, lilac and forsythia.
    There in the garden among new sprouts
    and bright blossoms, he is a golden
    reminder that spring cannot be calendared,
    but is inevitable, patient, and hopeful
    as new hues on old feathers.

  26. headintheclouds87

    The Dawn of Spring

    Sunlight finally comes
    After a long, tiring winter
    Of grey, dreary uncertainty
    And stark naked trees.
    Now, they begin to bloom
    As does the mind as well,
    Dusting off frosty cobwebs,
    Petals of inspiration begin to appear
    Before they slowly fall to the ground,
    Purpose returned without a sound.
    This is the time to be born again
    After our heavy and idle slumber,
    Ready to venture to light again
    And share a smile with another.

  27. Daniel Paicopulos

    Cycles

    As predictably as
    life leads to death,
    new life follows.
    As inevitably as fall
    leads to winter,
    spring follows.
    In March, thinking back,
    regardless of advanced age,
    one can’t forget the days,
    in small Midwestern towns,
    the unfettered joys,
    shared with friends,
    many who time has now taken.
    But surely the lilacs
    still bloom there in spring,
    great rows of them,
    hedges against the road noise,
    flowers picked a few at a time,
    nested in canning jars on kitchen tables.
    Are there still farms nearby,
    unsanitary, with cow smell
    wafting over the miles?
    Is the sky still cloudy in April,
    white puffs portending the arrival
    of the thunderheads to come,
    rolling in from the plains?
    Old folks can’t help themselves,
    it’s the nature of the beast,
    the looking back,
    the wondering about change.
    The elm trees have long departed,
    but what of the pines and firs,
    the birches that replaced them?
    Have they grown tall
    like their predecessors,
    creating a canopy,
    with just enough space for
    the moon to peek through?
    How about the lake?
    is it still a playground without toys,
    loved by local girls and boys?
    In memories,
    grand rhymes are found,
    written down quickly or lost,
    no matter how inspired.
    It’s the night shift,
    poems bathed in shadow,
    starlight used to burn
    the words in stanzas.

  28. Uma

    Shunning her everyday garb of blue
    the sky wears grey yet again
    an ocean dammed in brimming eyes

    Who does she mourn?
    This bride who will not let
    the sun shine in her smile

    She banishes the moon from her skirts
    The stars cling to her lashes
    fearful of cascading to the earth

    In this seemingly endless winter
    The only spring is in my step

  29. Anthony94

    Driving North

    The road is a jumble
    of orange netting and cones

    piles of gouged out dirt
    off to the sides where

    the dirty yellow grader
    hunkers like some cranky giant

    protecting his suspect
    holdings.

    Left and right turns
    through short blocks

    where houses sag
    in gray disappointment

    for their sliding prospects
    until I hit the end of town

    see bands strips of yellow
    in the abandoned field,

    hundreds of clumps of
    daffodils where the last

    razing scattered them
    now spiked up through

    brown grass like tiny
    heralds shouting spring.

  30. candy

    The Snowman

    She built a snowman
    On the first day of Spring
    Festooned it with a garland

    Of frozen daffodils
    A line of limp crocus,
    For buttons, marched

    Down its rounded belly
    A wreath of apple buds
    Circled its snowy head

  31. carolemt87

    March 20

    Spring arrived
    this morning
    wrapped tight
    in the gauze of
    a winter storm,
    stemmed on
    daffodil wings and
    pregnant gulf breezes.

    The earth etched
    from last year’s drought
    tilts a silver goblet
    drinking deep
    of crisp, clean
    wine.

  32. PowerUnit

    Coffee with Margaret Atwood

    I sat with Margaret Atwood this morning
    We drank coffee and I discussed my book
    I told her the story and described its
                  characters
                  themes
                  style
    I told her of its importance, predicted
    it would change the country, if not the world

    Margaret Atwood smiled and nodded
    agreed with my ruminations
    her head bobbling as though attached
    by a flimsy spring
    Margaret Atwood never said a word

  33. Jason L. Martin

    Girl, Seven

    She’ll push the boundaries of my impatience.
    The seeds she pushes into the earth will never bloom.
    She’ll water the soil beyond the earth’s limitations,
    and when there’s no sun, she’ll swipe away the gloom.
    When I say, “Just wait, and they will grow,” she moans.
    She runs outside, kneels down, prays and looms
    to fuel the flower out of the ground by sheer attention
    for all this impatiens – from a girl in such a hurry to bloom.

  34. Walter J Wojtanik

    IN ANTICIPATION OF SPRING

    Hidden in forbidden slumber
    under the slew of snow and ice.
    Merely days after a thought of Spring
    appears we’ll cheer and revel
    in celebration, joy will be unbridled
    when it decides to come. One-by-one
    the days have passed, slow not fast
    and each in question. Any mention
    of flurries and freezing leaves me
    cold. I’m getting to old for this.
    These are the waitings in which
    we’ve been partaking. There’s no
    mistaking, Spring is taking
    it’s sweet old time!

  35. Walter J Wojtanik

    SPRING IS THE THING

    If you decide to become a poet
    and expression is truly your thing,
    write your heart so people know it
    (if you decide to become a poet.)
    And try not to tell it, but show it,
    write a verse immersed in Spring!
    if you decide to become a poet
    and expression is truly your thing,

    1. De Jackson

      A Spring Fling

      If expression is truly your thing,
      just look to the flowers for your cues.
      They ‘petal’ their product in spring,
      and if expression is truly your thing,
      you’ll study the breeze that they sing.
      It ‘stems’ from being a-mused.
      When expression is truly your thing,
      just look to the flowers for your cues.

      1. Walter J Wojtanik

        STOP AND SMELL THE FLOWERS

        You must look to the flowers for your cues,
        for the crocuses and tulips are quite telling.
        Please stop to admire the pretty hues,
        you must look to the flowers for your cues.
        Pastel shades in pinks and blues,
        the Spring has made these blooms for smelling,
        You must look to the flowers for your cues,
        for the crocuses and tulips are quite telling.

        1. De Jackson

          Snow-Blowers

          Crocuses and tulips are quite telling.
          They know how to push through winter’s frost.
          They trumpet up without much yelling;
          yes crocuses and tulips are quite telling.
          Oh! Spring is coming! Their colors are spelling
          it in the snow, not one word lost.
          Crocuses and tulips are quite telling.
          They know how to push through winter’s frost.

          1. Walter J Wojtanik

            BUFFALOWERS

            They know how to push through winter’s frost,
            they’re resilient that way it is said,
            and Buffalonians know the cost.
            They know how to push through winter’s frost.
            And they love to party and when they’re sauced
            all that snow is in their head!
            They know how to push through winter’s frost,
            they’re resilient that way it is said.

          2. De Jackson

            Groundhogs Know How To Wait For Spring

            They’re resilient that way, it is said –
            like hibernating bears in sleepy dens.
            Sometimes they pop up, show their heads
            (they’re resilient that way, it is said).
            Though they sometimes settle back into bed,
            even with their own shadows, they’ve made friends.
            They’re resilient that way, it is said –
            like hibernating bears in sleepy dens.

          3. Walter J Wojtanik

            GOING TO BED BEAR

            I like hibernating bears in sleepy dens.
            They’re better there than in my yard,
            near my garden practicing their zen.
            I like hibernating bears in sleepy dens
            snuggling up with their other bear friends.
            Bears sleep ’til spring naked, so be on your gaurd!
            I like hibernating bears in sleepy dens.
            They’re better there than in my yard,.

          4. De Jackson

            Keep Those Busy Bees Over There, Please.

            They’re better there than in my yard.
            Oh, those busy bees that pollinate and tease
            the flowers to grow – the ones they later guard.
            They’re better over there than in my yard.
            I got stung once, on the nose, quite hard!
            And first I wheeze…and then I flees!
            They’re better there than in my yard.
            Oh, those busy bees that pollinate and tease.

          5. Walter J Wojtanik

            KILLER BEES TO MY ALLERGIES

            Those busy bees that pollinate and tease,
            they do their job but still find a way to annoy,
            they only serve to make me sneeze.
            Those busy bees that pollinate and tease.
            My eyes swell up and I start to wheeze,
            they make me one messed up boy!
            Those busy bees that pollinate and tease,
            they do their job but still find a way to annoy.

          6. De Jackson

            Noisy Alternative Gardeners

            They do their job but still find a way to annoy
            what with all the hard rock, and heavy metal, too.
            Being masters of the roses must be their ploy
            (oh, they do their job but still find a way to annoy.)
            And once that volume gets turned up? Boy, oh boy!
            Don’t the words “5am” mean anything to you?
            They do their job but still find a way to annoy
            what with all the hard rock, and heavy metal, too.

          7. Walter J Wojtanik

            E-LEVEN

            With all the hard rockers, and heavy metallurgists, too,
            I find that spring can be tightly wound.
            I’d put them all in a head-banging zoo,
            with all the hard rockers, and heavy metal, too.
            Spring should be more pastoral, it’s true
            the gentlest music I’ve found.
            With all the hard rockers, and heavy metallurgists, too,
            I find that spring can be tightly wound.

          8. De Jackson

            Sum, Her Solstice

            I do find that spring(s) can be tightly wound
            (unlike summer with its easy-breezy roll.)
            What with all the buzzing, as budding abounds,
            I do find that spring(s) can be tightly wound.
            Add it all together, and I have found
            that somewhere in between is best for the soul.
            I do find that spring(s) can be tightly wound
            (unlike summer with its easy-breezy roll.)

          9. Walter J Wojtanik

            SCHOOL OF HARD (EQUI)NOX

            Summer has its easy-breezy roll.
            As seasons go, most probably the best.
            It’s nice on the beach when you take a stroll,
            since summer has its easy-breezy roll.
            Winter seems to take a heavy toll,
            but Spring and Autumn are always welcomed guests.
            Summer has its easy-breezy roll.
            As seasons go, most probably the best.

          10. De Jackson

            Oh, Spring! You Fine Thing.

            As seasons go, you’re most probably the best.
            What with flowers, sunshine. Blue skies, rain.
            You really put the others to the test.
            As seasons go, you’re most probably the best.
            And as that bold spring solstice swells her chest,
            I dress myself in breeze, and daisy chains.
            As seasons go, you’re most probably the best.
            What with flowers, sunshine. Blue skies, rain.

          11. Walter J Wojtanik

            THE SPRING’S THE THING

            What’s with the flowers and sunshine? Blue skies, rain?
            Can we give a name to this thing?
            This pleasantness is messing with my brain,
            What’s with the flowers and sunshine? Blue skies, rain?
            Too much thinking will drive me insane,
            Is this that season called “Spring”?
            What’s with the flowers and sunshine? Blue skies, rain?
            Can we give a name to this thing?

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