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monday, monday

the weather is balmy

birdsong flutters in through the open window

the sky threatens rain and i wish it would

so march could be washed out with violence

the other day i bought a book to keep my thoughts in

poetry kept spilling out onto hands and arms and knees

the faux crocodile leather covers made me feel important

like a real poet, whatever that is

webster defines balmy as soothing and mild or foolish

is the day foolish — is the weather?

that’s the trouble with words

they manifest themselves differently in different minds

we have been spotting ladybugs since last october

spotting means seeing or applying spots to

not all of them are spotted, so they’re not ladybugs

but that’s what we call them because that’s the word we know

i write what comes out of me, but is it poetic?

i used to think his name was merriam or daniel

but it is actually noah, like the ark

there is only so much you can say with words

“i’ve never been good with words,” people say

i have made them my life and my livelihood

does anyone struggle with words more than a wordsmith?

aspiring to be one, i could not say

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