it is a rather common day
early in another april
except that the door is open
for the first time in months
in come the sounds of a new season
like the return of an old friend
with the clicking trees saying,
“you never write;
when you were younger,
you used to write all the time”
i know i should pick up my pen
and jot a few lines
about the pleasing arcs of daffodils
or the spring songs of tractors
but now the birds have suddenly stopped
their annual nest-making
and the cats have made a curious peace
with the dogs across the way
even the wind has stopped its yelling -
just sitting there quietly in the clouds
listening to stories of the sun
and me, i am drifting now,
my little journal perched
like a tiny teepee upon my chest
my hand dips into the river
formed all along the sofa,
dousing for words
like an oar feeling for the current
i scoop up languor and twitter
from the cool still water
and plop them in my mouth
like melted snow,
tasting the rocks and iron
of a far away place
i go back for more
and am happy to pull up see-saw
quite by happenstance
but i know i am
drowsing further now
and that it is far too late for writing
or warm chats with friends
“perhaps tomorrow,”
i call out to shore,
floating away,
see-saw still
splish-splashing at my feet,
the name of some flower -
hyacinth maybe -
drying on my face.