April is poetry month.
It says so right here on the flyer
I got at the free library.
I suppose I should be thinking great thoughts
reading great lines or even composing verse
but the world is not quite done with me.
While idle poets are gazing at the sunrise
noticing a certain slant of vernal light
imagining the sound of wood oars against gun rails
contemplating the shape of lilies,
I am busy in the wooden shed, syphoning
gasoline from the snow blower to the lawnmower
draining oil, stowing the snow shovels 'till oyster time.
Now, plows are churning stones in the glacial earth
fields lay still, in fecund anticipation
seeds and compost, clamoring,
elbowing-out high falootin’ thoughts about
spiders’ webs, unrequited love, lost vigor,
regrets.
No. I have no time for poetry in April.
Dennis Noonan
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