Spring, perchance

“Spring is like a
perhaps,”
e. e. cummings said,
“hand…”

For all I know,
as luck would have it,
mayhap e. had been
a weatherman,

instead of a poet.
Poets often talk
about things nothing
know they about,

like Spring,
but as things may turn out,
e. e. wasn’t talking about Spring,
but about a hand.

But Spring’s not here an either
or proposal; Spring’s neither
but here nor and there but per
adventure thru a broken window.

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