Poetry by Hinsley Ford

Slipping Under Spring

I hate Spring; I always have,
which makes me feel
like a freak,

an outcast,

a spoil sport,

just ridiculous.

Who could hate spring?

The gray clouds finally

crack open and spill the remains of


The first hints of sun

fall upon the streets and

the faces of children.

Dogs roll on their backs,

stretching like taffy with

tongues lolling, bellies exposed.

For me, though,

it's too hard to let Winter go.

Winter is a season I can hide in,

and fall just about takes me there.

Spring takes off my clothes

and I'm not a big fan of naked.
Pastel colors and tulips
depress me,
(and let's not even talk
about jellybeans.)

When the first day of sun
hits my windows,
I know this to be true:

I have months to go before

I feel safe again,

seven to be exact --

I slip beneath the surface

just as the world

comes out to live.

Hinsley Ford, 36, lives in a revamped 1900's colonial house in Bangor, Maine, right around the corner from Stephen King. She spent her childhood years as a developmental oddity -- incubating like a fuzzy chick in an oxygen tent. Diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder as a teenager, she still went on to graduate from Mount Holyoke College and Harvard University. Hoping she can keep doing this writing thing, she is trying to write a book about her unusual, funny and tragic life.