Spring must be the season of poetry. When Shakespeare yearned for a comparison to a summer's day whispering it's coming arrival in the winds of May poppy fields. It seems as if all the love poems bloom after basking in April showers. But I am not a poet. And while I lay beneath dreaming in verse and in rhyme, you will never see someone compare my scrawl to Keats' Bright Star shinning in the warm night sky , And though I stand before you, my legs keep shaking, and my hands keep stuttering, and my self confidence can only be measured out into teaspoons- mixed into my poetry and still, somehow, taste funny in my mouth. Spring is the season of poetry. Just like newborn babies being brought onto this Earth, my poems take life with their first breath of air. Maybe I am not a poet. Everyone likes to take it as a hobby of mine, "my words are pushing daisies," they tell me "You better have a Plan B." But all these bees seem to be doing for me is populate the garden of my gut as I stand here on stage. Spring is the season of poetry. Because as these lights shine down on me it feels like the sun melting away my fears from the long, brisk winter cold. A glow building within as I share my stories that have been longing to be told. I am a poet. I need not a judge to tell me so, I need not an English teacher's opinion to tell me so. I am a poet. And spring is the season for poetry.