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