on spring day number thirty-seven
i remember nothing new and wing
along inside mind’s eye
to capture        so to speak
a prize, a gem of introspection
one that i might share        and pen
my quiet jubilation        so
the cause of what i might expect is simple
seems to be neglect of all which bears
resemblance to a memory
or ample contemplation        oh
now there’s a thought-
ful pause inside this realm of mine
to realize that what is not is
new when it becomes        i see the
light of day beside the elm tree
fade away as bits of cotton battin’
float northeast away to shade
some other place        and when
the sun comes back to me and
i beside the elm tree watch
a bird, a fly, a bee
i catch an armadillo bug beneath a
rock with seven slugs and then i
roll the little fellow as a ball
around the trash can lid
and this he does so patiently until i
smash him to the ground        it’s
all she wrote for mr. bug        the
fall was just too much, no parachute
like dandelions which
sail forever        they can float
back down to earth or glide in
to a neighbor’s weeds I shouldn’t mind
if those weeds grow their roots
across the driveway birth is such a
lovely thing