These Hazy Days

Drink from the Hose

The leaves on the poplar have fully fledged
and in a nearby neighbor's cherry tree,
a robin weaves a silver song
through her tidily thatched nest.
Clouds are light and few in the sky,
stricken gentle pink as sunset waits
to settle across the brow of the horizon.

Oh, perhaps I'm trying too hard to be poetic.
Perhaps I should just let the robin
have her say, and let that be enough.
She can paint a portrait
of this tender April evening
far better than yours truly.

Or perhaps I should drop this
(supposedly) scholarly tone,
forget fanciful imagery,
and just take my shoes off. Yes!
And I will dirty my socks,
drink from the hose,
refine my tatty eyebrows
with streamlined streaks of mud.

I will stuff my mouth full
of scented blossoms,
then see how far I can spit them.
I'll search for centipedes under the rocks,
and when I find one, I'll dash off screaming,
having looked past the fact I don't like bugs.
I'll let the chickens dig and dance in the garden,
and I'll roll in the dirt for the simple sake
of making a mess.

I shouldn't try to capture this beauty
these wild childish impulses
the humble robin's song
with strained verse
stunted rhythm
any sort of trap.

I'll stop this stuffy nonsense now
and run amok in the yard.
The neighbors might look at me strangely.
That's all well; they won't know what they're missing.