A Day Of Something

A poem is a mountain, a pond, an ocean, a desert, 

a forest, a grain of sand, a lost child needing a home.

What a day of nothing in writing,

looking out windows, 

pacing around the house and yard, 

turning on music, turning it off, 

snacking on Girl Scout cookies.

I hoped for a word to flutter in, 

a butterfly of a thought,

a sigh from the grasslands,

or fantastic creatures galloping

down the Huachuca Mountain slopes.

I had a glass of wine,

thinking I would see a change in the sky’s colors,

or I’d put a new spin on a curious idea

scribbled in the margin of my notebook.

I managed to insert a comma, instead.

I had one more glass and played 

my trumpet to a forties big band tune

and was sure I saw dragons leap 

from quickly moving clouds.

I can’t sit still and wait for something to happen.

Surely there’s a restless poem or two in all that.

Maybe tomorrow. But for this afternoon, 

with some Syrah and The Wailin’ Jennys,

I’ll soften into the lay of the landscape.

From: Small Places, Big Places, Everywhere 

Unpublished MS p. 44