spring

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.