As daffodils, some poets bloom in spring
As balmy days do break hard winter's grip,
And feathered engineers, nest builders, sing
Those sacred songs which haunt some poet's lip.
Some poets bloom in summer, as a rose,
And cry as eagles, at the break of day
As thermals rise, or some soft zephyr blows,
And they, for nesting young, set off for prey.
But some, in autumn, bloom as daisies bloom,
And honk as geese who seek a milder place
Where poets sing of some impending doom,
Or doom's antithesis, the boon of grace.
In winter, poets sing of beauty's dearth,
Or else of spring, or what's implied by birth.