It's conceivable that I could plant something today. The garden is finally clear of snow and beginning to dry out. But the air is stiff and gray and raw . . . March air, not a hint of spring softness. There is nothing sweet in this air, nothing to make a seed want to grow.

I spent a bit of time with Beowulf yesterday. The Geats have "duly arrived [at the Danes' mead hall] / in their grim war-graith and gear"

and, weary from the sea, stacked wide shields
of the toughest hardwood against the wall,
then collapsed on the benches; battle-dress
and weapons clashed.

Yes, for many thousands of years, boys have been stomping into houses, and dropping all of their heavy stuff in a big noisy clatter, and clunking down onto chairs and benches. The next thing these Geats will do is fidget during the old-guy speeches and then eat a ridiculous amount of food.

Why would anyone suggest that this poem is too hard for teenagers? This poem is about teenagers.