The words of the poets pour down
like the spring rain
holding the promise of summer warmth
but still cold,
cutting to the bone.

They pool up in puddles beside the road
or wait in looming black clouds.

Summer will come soon enough
when there is time for poetry
pouring over us
like the waterfall in the forest
or the waves
pounding the beaches.

Until then
we wear our slickers
and step over puddles
as wait for more time
and warmer days.