|There is only curiosity|
touching snow in Spring,
in the ways numerous playwrights
have painted landscapes with nothing
short of pen and paper.
The whole of imagination
trickles down to the awakening grass
in air that never seems cold enough
to warrant the frost, when
Shakespeare fell in love but still
couldn't express it without being
vain and sentimental.
|The wet grass is again|
sprouting in the same, familiar ways,
scratching above the surface
and scraping the snow as it hits
at the most inopportune time
to settle down after it has already
been called back to its seat.
The ordinary are lost on innovation,
peeling thoughts to endure the struggle
while my throat wraps in vibrations,
looking for a space in between the lines
where it can fit my voice in.