it’s spring,

it’s poetry month,

but i don’t feel like a poem, much
and, i don’t feel like a poet, much

unable to wax

about the army of robins
advancing in grid formation across the wakened grass, tilting their crowns in ancient choreography, listening, listening

about a cardinal beneath
the forsythia in dulled morning light
forecasting in my mind
how stunning this scene might-could be
when that gold blooms full in a cloudless sky next week

about the bald eagle i somehow didn’t perceive,
and regrettably flushed from a towering elm tree
as i stepped out from my door
and holy fuck,
i was just as flushed
beholding the nigh colossus that was her

these seeds of words and gamete poems
just atrophy, then die, inside of me

without germination.

without fertilization.

oh,
April.