SPECIAL JEAN LITTLE EDITION
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THREE POEMS
I feel like the ground in winter, Hard, cold, dark, dead, unyielding. Then hope pokes through me Like a crocus.
Rain is as mischief-making as a child. She pokes the Thunder's ribs until he roars. She sits on steepled roofs and thrums her heels And tickles grass and taps at solemn doors. She dampens dignitaries and their wives, Paints saucy freckle-faces on the roads, Makes mud puddles and rainbows; then gets down To scrub the tiny blissful backs of toads.
When I was in Grade Two, I said to my father, "I think wars are wrong! People should be told to stop all this fighting right now. If I were crowned Queen of the World, I'd make wars against the law." My father said I had something there, But he didn't seem terribly excited. I could not understand him. Then I went upstairs and caught my sister Marilyn Playing with my new paper dolls without my permission! We had a war. |
