Friday Poetry Blogging: belated Saturday edition

It's the middle of March, and somewhere, I firmly believe, it is spring. Somewhere. But not here. Here, it's colder than a witch's tit in a brass bra (as my grandmother likes to say), and we're supposed to get an inch of snow today. You can't even smell the first thoughts of spring here. I HATE March in Minnesota. So here is a poem of defiance:

in Just -, by e. e. cummings

in Just-

spring when the world is mud-

luscious the little

lame balloonman

whistles far and wee

and eddieandbill come

running from marbles and

piracies and it's

spring

when the world is puddle-wonderful

the queer

old balloonman whistles

far and wee

and bettyandisbel come dancing

from hop-scotch and jump-rope and

it's

spring

and

the

goat-footed

balloonMan whistles

far

and

wee