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
the limineen | earthling, poet & crone 