April 7

i was going
to write a poem
today
about something
funny, quirky
quippy
nothing of forests or seas
or trees of any variety

so i wrote
lying down on my back
pencil wood sharp
drawing words from the cream of the page
as i burned it across the paper

windfall piled around me
unripe or bruised
all of it necessary
most of it discarded
found the dark of the bruise sweetest
as ever

and the poem grew wild
turned from me and nodded
with the day’s sun
ran tendrils
grew straggly
i let it
out of its year-long
espaliered structure

free of quips and quirks

and ended here today
spent of garden metaphor
in time for lunch.