Spring

I am nine so
Spring to me is
Not flowers but mud
As I trudge to school and
Then home losing mittens on
A regular basis trying to keep on
My black rubber rain boots but
Losing one after the other as
I try to balance on one foot
Only to jam my Buster
Brown shoe into the
Mud hoping I can
Pull it out again
Wondering if
My shortcut
Through a
Tree line
Was a
Good idea
And if I can
Clean my shoe
So no one will notice
Neither of which is likely
But in the Spring hope
Springs eternal from
Nine-year-olds who
Are slow to learn
And given to a
Shortcut no
Matter how
Often my
Routes
Tend
To a muddy
Muddle for the
Next seven
Decades
Sadder
But not wiser
Lucky I do not
Mind getting dirty
As long as a hot shower
Soap and cup of hot cocoa
Are at the end of a trail of muddy
Footprints, I later as a Dad held
My young son as he entered
Our university apartment
With muddy shoes onto
The floor up the wall
Across the ceiling
Down the wall
Out the back
Door so my
Wife when
She got
Home
Had
A laugh.