It was too beautiful a day
to sit in class.
Worn thin, this adjective,
Like steel wool used too often
And cheapened like the girl in the
Second row; she’s just another
This day is like every other.
No clouds, and the sun
That makes us squint so
We can’t even see.
It is beautiful outside, it is March, and I
couldn’t bear to sit in class any longer.
And while all the trees are still dead,
Their limbs only sometimes resembling
The skeletons I hear them compared to,
One has bloomed, white bursts–
I’d tell you if I knew
What kind of tree it is.
To my eyes, it is pretty, unlike
Those beautiful non-skeletons.