Each March,
I fall for it,
the siren sun
wading through blue
to the abandoned crow’s nest
over my house,
sticks and torn shopping bags
jutting out like a Jolly Roger,
the sound of possibility
trifling with dead leaves and plastic.
Even the raven won’t land here,
and the squirrels have abandoned ship.
So what the heck
are you wearing white for?
Put that sweater back on, stupid.
You’re getting goosebumps.
Posted in Facebook Poetry, Katherine's Coffeehouse
