My smallish playground
is with grasses worn out
and weeds all around
after Spring left.
Bereft
of any florets in the middle
wishes still twiddle
in this field,
Trying to thrust my troubles
vault over the hurdles
dribble past some monotone duty
just as beaming children
sprinkling their joy
as iridescent lather
-the myriad bubbles
reflect
elysian dreams for me.
Amidst their middle,
I maybe scribbling some lines,
what if Spring forgets to return?
