Seasonal Poem by Morgan Michaels

Popsicles are back
at Costco, gone all winter long
and the ice cream guy's truck's
back, back,
chiming those inane songs
you'd like to forget, but can't.
Thursday we soak the seeds
we'll sink in plots of warm loam
in a few days or so-
when, that is, we get back
from Toronto, where it's probably still cold:
them that in months to come
will flood the broken walk with pinks,
poppies and blinking nasturtiums,
while at the mouths of summer morns
sound the pre-ambulatory horns
of a music festival.
Shad's back, if not roe,
and today, we overheard
someone on the bus tell how,
in a tree, outside her lobby door
some kind of bird has built a nest-
poor thing, it looks so scared
sitting, sitting, sitting,
but determined, nonetheless:
perhaps it's a robin, she's not sure-
you, though, would probably know.