by BIlly Collins

If ever there were a spring day so perfect,

so uplifted by a warm intermittent breeze


that it made you want to throw

open all the windows in the house


and unlatch the door to the canary’s cage,

indeed, rip the little door from its jamb,


a day when the cool brick paths

and the garden bursting with peonies


seemed so etched in sunlight

that you felt like taking


a hammer to the glass paperweight

on the living room end table,


releasing the inhabitants

from their snow-covered cottage


so they could walk out,

holding hands and squinting


into this larger dome of blue and white,

well, today is just that kind of day.


ABOUT THE AUTHOR: Billy Collins (born 1941) served as Poet Laureate of the United States from 2001-2003 and New York State poet from 2004-2006. He is a Distinguished Professor at Lehman College of the City University of New York City, where he has taught for over forty years.