It happens this way …
Arrival
This week Spring
smuggled passels
of squills and crocuses
into our yard.
Which means
it’s clear-out time
for weeds and moss
and all those broken twigs
sticking to the bottom
of the pond.
But a poem is chasing
me around the house –
its inconvenient voice
fending off practicalities,
demanding attention
for nothing more
than ornament.
When has a sonnet
pruned a fir?
A quatrain
thatched a lawn?
And free verse?
Not sharp enough
to root out
rotten stumps
or relocate a bush.
Today I’ll negotiate
how deep
I’ll have to dig
to find words
to cultivate.
Poems aggravate
that way.
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