You know how sometimes you
make something harder than
it has to be,

which can feel like trying to
shovel packed snow hardened
into a giant ice cube?

Or, today, like futzing with
a simple poem to somehow
force it to sing

when all the damn thing wants
is to lie there with its awkwardly
mixed metaphors

and trying-too-hard similes
and have a good lie-down, not
struggle to its feet

and scamper gaily across wherever
it is you’re trying to make it dance.
Or sing.

The solution appears as you head
into the gift of a warm winter day:
Let the poem poem itself.

Stop trying to wrangle a tortured
comparison out of simple words
that don’t need fancifying,

which all by themselves trickle down
a grateful page into a wee poem
without any fuss and bother—

like this.