And this is what I love about poetry. Mostly it grows naturally.

And this is what frustrates me about poetry. Natural growth can take a while.

By “naturally”, I mean that poetry is mostly organic. A seed is planted in your brain and then, bam, it’s a poem. Last night for instance, I was staying at an Airbnb with my daughter. I saw this set of instructions for guests.

I laughed and asked my daughter, “Well, that’s fine for summer and winter. But what about weather like this, like in weird spring?” (There was a frost warning last night, to give you an idea.) And then I said, “Weird Spring would be a great name for a band.”

She agreed and we moved on, but those two words stuck in my brain. And it turns out, they make a pretty decent poem, too.

Weird Spring

By Michelle Garren-Flye

That moment when the air stops

and a stillness falls

like just before a storm

but then the music crashes in

and it’s weird spring

and you’re on the road again

with violets blooming

on the brick walls

and words dripping from arbors

like sweet-smelling jasmine

or wistful wisteria

and everything is purple all day long

and gold at night

when you hold my hand in the moonlight

because it’s weird spring

and anything is possible.