The peepers chirp like birds beside our pond.
The robinís back from far beyond
the hill, where deer still graze
on misty days.
From trees in bud the green is bursting through.
Forsythiaís gay saffron hue
mimics the daffodilís
bright yellow frills.
One day itís cold, the next itís extra warm.
This wind might like to do us harm.
The river wants to flood;
our path is mud.
The kids at school anticipate the day
when they can stay at home and play.
It seems the time is right
to fly a kite.
Published in WestWard Quarterly, Spring 2011
©2011 Laudemont Press