The birds sing like it is Spring, but it’s just March.
Are they confused, or is it me?
I hold my hand out on my porch and breathe in--
believing, if they land on me, Seasons will change.
They snicker at this, the birds, knowing for them
the change was long ago decided.
I want to join them
almost as much as I want to smoke a cigarette
and pretend to be 17 again
or lose my virginity while remaining friends
and travel to Germany without searching for that kiss.
I want to sit in a tree and sing
imagining that March is Spring.