A Roundabout Way to an Old Poem

I read somewhere recently that April is National Poetry Month.

This would be a perfect time to post a heart-tugging poem about Peanut and all that she is.

The thing is, I still haven't gotten around to writing it.

Oh, I will. I wrote a poem for Sissy on her last birthday, and we try to divvy up the butterfly accolades right down the middle around here.

And lest we slip up, the ever-so-helpful Grandmother Butterfly is quick to remind us:

"Nina, I don't know if you're aware of this, but awhile back, you posted that Peanut scored 6 points in one of her ballgames. But you didn't write about Sissy scoring 10 points in her last game! That was her best game of the season! I know things were crazy the following week and you didn't get a chance to blog any, but you really need to go back and fix that."

Sometimes, I think if I have to give them exactly equal portions of one. more. thing, that my head will open up, and my brain will just, very neatly , separate along the midline, and both overloaded hemispheres will tumble onto the floor in quivering blobs of protest. One for each girl.

But, I'm going to risk it right now, because I'm just that crazy. And my mother is right. It was absolutely her best game. So here goes.

On March 1, 2008, Sissy played her heart out, got a couple of lucky breaks, and ended the season with a point total in double digits for the first time ever. She has since decided she wants to be a Lady Vol when she grows up. THEN she'll be an astronaut.

So, yeah, I'll eventually get around to writing Peanut's poem. But just in case I don't get it done in April, I'll celebrate National Poetry Month now, by reaching way, waaaay back.

Ah, yes. Here it is. One of my best works. Third grade, I believe. Or maybe it was fifth.

Anyway. Ahem.

Spring

Spring is here

Bees are buzzing

Wooly worms are just fuzzy-wuzzing

Flowers blooming

Leaves turning green

And the prettiest redbuds you've ever seen

Goodbye snow and ice

I need you no more

Springtime just now knocked at the door

You know, I just realized, spring isn't really wooly-worm season is it? Oh well, I was eight. Or so.