If I don’t write a poem, I might break
Because the words in my head are a monotone
If I sleep, I could fix it but I can’t sleep because
There’s a buzzing that throbs like a phone

It’s a thick air that rolls in around
And the young leaves are bent from the snow
And the road is scattered with sticks
And everything’s screaming to grow

And everyone’s set to pop
And laughter and tears weren’t invited but know
That the blood moves in time with the crop
Of a billion buds scratching to grow

If I don’t write a poem I might slump
Towards dinner and then some whatever
Forgetting the gift that was brought on the wind
To my windshield: a single, grey feather.

Tuesday May 13, 2003 6:51pm (after a snow)