I admit it. I’m shamelessly using the word inchoate just to get your attention, but it’s a worthy cause. I’m including a poem I wrote when much younger, or as we say at my age, much, much younger and maybe it will help chase the “Where the Hell is Spring Blues” away. But just so Krista doesn’t throw me bodily off the site:
There was a delightful old poet
who was challenged one day with “inchoate.”
Though her ideas were many
She has left this to Denny … (you know who you are)
For she knows, without doubt, she would blow it.
OK??? Now, here’s the other poem!
The time was right for Spring to come
But She was not in view;
Old Winter had secured a hold
And Spring could not break through.
Oh, how the children cried, and mothers
Sighed to see them so.
But Winter held on stubbornly
And just refused to go.
A little girl searched through the snow
To find where Spring was kept.
She found a house whose door was shut.
Inside it, someone wept.
She peered in through a window
That was untouched by snowflake
And there was lovely Spring, a-weep
As if her heart would break.
The little girl did not dare lift
The window in the fear
That Winter would come rushing in
And freeze each falling tear.
So sad was she to see Spring thus
She too shed tears—and, lo
They fell like fire upon the ground
And melted all the snow.
She flung the her arms up to the sky;
The air turned warm and sweet.
Soon gentle birds began to sing
and grass grew at her feet.
Then Spring was standing near, with
Sparking eyes and cheeks of red,
And bending, thanked the little child
With a kiss upon her head.
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