02.14.19 bad poetry day

it seems only bad poetry
could be written on such a day—
though piles of snowy
bright-lit and grey clouds
billowing, tracing at a sigh’s
softened pace against a
brilliant blue sky suggest
otherwise.
Love is a commercial thing
today. Hallmarked, ear-
marked, marketed red &
pink & categorical.
Do leafless trees love
the chill of crisp cold wind
against rain-dampened trunks?
Do they thrill at the teasing
blooming burst of sun heat
before it takes once more
to coy blankets?
Does asphalt delight in the
gentle rolling push of
tires pressed against it?
Who’s to say it doesn’t.
I’d never before thought
to be envious of a parking lot,
or a windshield bearing
rain’s lingering patter.