Poetry

Another Beautiful Day

It was too beautiful a day
to sit in class.

Worn thin, this adjective,
Like steel wool used too often
And cheapened like the girl in the
Second row; she's just another
Beautiful face.

This day is like every other.
No clouds, and the sun
That makes us squint so
We can’t even see.
It is beautiful outside, it is March, and I
couldn’t bear to sit in class any longer.

And while all the trees are still dead,
Their limbs only sometimes resembling
The skeletons I hear them compared to,
One has bloomed, white bursts--
I’d tell you if I knew
What kind of tree it is.
To my eyes, it is pretty, unlike
Those beautiful non-skeletons.