“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.
The Coming of the Toads 