Spring is sneaking in …

It happens this way …

Arrival

This week Spring

smuggled passels

of squills and crocuses

into our yard.

Which means

it’s clear-out time

for weeds and moss

and all those broken twigs

sticking to the bottom

of the pond.

 

But a poem is chasing

me around the house –

its inconvenient voice

fending off practicalities,

demanding attention

for nothing more

than ornament.

 

When has a sonnet

pruned a fir?

A quatrain

thatched a lawn?

And free verse?

Not sharp enough

to root out

rotten stumps

or relocate a bush.

 

Today I’ll negotiate

how deep

I’ll have to dig

to find words

to cultivate.

Poems aggravate

that way.

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