Spring arrived fashionably late,
Dressed for success but stewed in sweat
As though straight from a morning jog.  

But it wasn’t a jog that caused the sweat—no,
It took too much codeine for a papercut
And it’s bringing bouquets of daffodils
To apologize.  

You say to Spring, motioning around the veranda,
“Look at the family, they’re all
Frozen solid; how are we going to explain this
To Easter?”  

Uncle Earl had his hand half-raised
As though he wished to share his latest health scare
But, uncharacteristically, wasn’t sure what to say; 
His lips were parted too—
His rants on respecting the national anthem
Were classics of the Thanksgiving meltdown
Genre, as were his profane jeers
Of pop singers as they performed it—  

But he was a cube. They all were cubes.  

“Are there statues in the Parthenon?” Spring asks.
“What did you ask me?” you say.
“Are there statues in the Parthenon?” Spring repeats.
Upon seeing your scowl, Spring adds, with a sense of defeat,
“Just trying to class the place up.”  

It waves its wand drowsily
And the world transitions—yes,the fam included—
From cryogenics into clothing
That no longer fits but nonetheless advertises thigh tattoos.  

For its part, Spring retrieves a couple of cages
Full of bunny rabbits from its car,
Sips a tequila sunrise and cries
Like there’s no tomorrow.