A Poem for Spring

From Under a Pile of Kleenex
(with apologies to Elizabeth Barrett Browning)

How do I loathe thee? Let me count the ways.
I loathe thee with each sniff and cough and sneeze
my lungs do make, when pollen asks its fees
at the end of April and into May.

I loathe thee to the level of every day’s
most loathsome hate, from grass and leaves and trees.
I loathe thee freely, as a toddler hates his peas;
I loathe thee purely, as vampires hate sun rays.

I loathe thee with the passion put to use
in my old griefs, and with my childhood’s whines.
I loathe thee with a loathe I seem to lose
only when Ben’dryl’s strength I use in time.

Hours, sneezing, for all the year!—as seasons move,
I shall but hate thee moreso in July.