Kevin T McEneaney

Staggered But Singing

Staggered but Singing

March snow, a dirty melt to squelching mud.
The haunting cheep of peepers trilling the night.
Cusp of foolish, fickle April with warm sun.
Cool breeze harping bare, flailing branches.

Nervous energy of restless exultation
spilling like wine over a glass rim—

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