The sun has no regard for day today,
Hid its face till afternoon, then appeared
Briefly at the end of a long muddy lane.
I stopped to watch it burn itself
Against the soaked meadow, then laughed
As mud upon my boots crudely interrupted
Musings of a half-composed poem….
Breaking thought away from passages of the
Sun and verse together as snow began to fall.
Did someone forget to tell the clouds
That spring is seven days away, as
All of wildlife waits for warmer days?
Soon I’ll turn to spoon-shaped moons for dry refuge,
Exchanging poetic license in favor of synonyms for sunset,
The painful limp of iambic foot drags,
Upstaged upon the snoozing mind by
Lovers walking hand-in-hand across a poetic path,
Waiting for dusk to take them further into love.