Opening

There are many things I hate about spring.

Constant sweat

dribbling down my back,

pooling in damp dark semicircles

above my waist

or forming chalky silhouettes

on my sheets.

Mobs of people, out of hibernation --

this, I never understand;

are they unable to wear coats? --

streaming through crosswalks

choking off walkways.

Spring menus replacing winter,

trading roots, for berries.

Prioritizing crisp and

fresh, over flavor and depth.

Taxes.

And yet, two words

somehow manage

to redeem the season.

"Play ball."