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The worst part of spring isn’t pollen,
or sickly and trickly catarrh,
or the slippery petals soon fallen
on patio, driveway, and car.
I can live with the rains always plinking,
black mud and brown crud on my Keds,
and the hailstorms that, just when I’m thinking,
“Nice tulips!” come bomb them to shreds.

No, the horror of spring is recession:
when snow starts to go, the world’s peeled;
April warmth brings an end to discretion
as tufts, long unmown, lie revealed.
I can feel myself blushing—will neighbors
catch sight of this blight, winter's dregs,
and be shocked at my slackening labors?
I sigh, and I go shave my legs.