Something there is sleepy
About a weekend in April,
Tall trees persist unleaved,
Faces remain pale beyond belief
Eyes squinting in the garden sun
While pondering one’s lost sunglasses
Winter habituates weekends at rest,
Now little chores come most tiresome,
Though not for the novelty of turning loam, or
Seeing Robins on the verge
Watching one’s worm brown hillocks grow,
While they tenuous scratch at past Fall’s leaves
The last chore checked off
As a new list forms in the mind,
Next weekend’s, unwritten,
While the legs dopey for lack of winter use
Plod over to a porch chair, where,
The doze comes on with a sip of cold coffee
Pollen?
Up early?
Catching-up the work week?
No, the cause is simple,
It’s Spring
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