Springtime Poets
There is no power 'neath the sun
Can still a young man's hand,
From scrawling miles of rambling verse
When springtime fills the land.
Let him see bees or daffodils
And poems fill his brain,
With bumbling meter and cliched rhyme
That no flesh can restrain.
You may as well reverse the clock
And return to winter dark,
Then staunch the prose that gushes forth
When once he hears the lark.
I do not care for birds or trees,
Or sunshine or the dew.
But I cannot help but burst with song
When once I think of you.
For Melanie.
Matthew Hoover,
October 2005
