Week of Spring Break--Free Entry

I am tempted to write a poem. But I remember what it said on one rejection slip:

After a heavy rainfall, poems titled RAIN pour in from across the nation.
                from The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath

                                March

The rain blows aslant outside my bedroom window.

The daffodils’ fried-egg faces lie over-easy on the ground,

too dim-witted to fight back. Thor’s goat-drawn chariot

chases Mjollnir across the sky, causing the cats to hunker down.

Up by the road new shoots anticipate spring’s approach,

withholding their colorful charms until the all clear

shines for them to exit their dark shelters and bloom.

To the scent of their song, late winter turns a deaf ear.

I wonder why so many people die at this time of year.

They, too, must get beaten down by winter’s maelstrom

and lose their impetus to burgeon into another spring;

or perhaps they surrender, forgetting that spring will come.

O Sunna, let me die in the summertime when the land is lush;

Let me lie, not like the droopy daffodils who lack the right stuff,

but sunny-side up, gazing through a plethora of pink mimosa poms

as I levitate languidly into uncomplicated clouds of fluff.

Cradle me forever in sweet summer’s fertile womb.

Sing me your lazy lullaby through the starlit, balmy night.

Carry me far away from winter’s cruel, callous tomb

where your nemesis ‘Despair’ eclipses warmth and light.