a fever poem (it was 100)

Let's let
Spring and Fall
Become bouncing verbs
reserved for pogostick stomachs
on asphalt driveway.


Because that pretty robin
you watched fall from the sky,
well, I'm pretty sure
He was ready to die.


So don't sweat it.
Verbs happen.


And now all those
banjo croaking frogs
alive in the pond
can become our new
onomatopoeia


For a season that drops
fawns into the woods
of our backyard
and drops robins onto
a springtime altar


Made of mud and corn.