The snow is melting,

The chill is receding,

The flowers are changing,

The birds returning.

The day is gay,

The clouds are calming,

The smooth day is punctuated

By the shrieks of happy children.

But here I am, plotting away,

In the artificial light of a ravanged room.

A suitcase on the bed, 

Leaking out tossed in clothing.

Ripped wrapping paper and bows

Scattered on the floor, 

Hiding the sharpened sissors. 

Two weeks left.

Everything is begun, 

Nothing is finished. 

The brain is muddied by enthusiastic thoughts

Of the world beyond childhood.

It can't comprehend past the Atlantic

Waiting for me. 

For the new culture, sitting still,

As I come hurling toward it. 

Nothing could possibly matter,

Everything needs my attention now. 

I have no time for the sun

With last preperations still buzzing,

Scraps of paper floating about.

Two weeks is too short.

Two weeks is too long.

Will I be ready? 

Maybe, perhaps, probably not.

It doesn't really matter, does it.

It's really the joy that is brought,

Transported by the plane and 

To a new world, that really counts.

It's not a big deal.

The world suddenly revolves around me. 

Just for a moment.

Perfection.