I owe myself a piece of poetry
and I can’t think to write on anything
except how unaware I seem to be,
except how unprepared I am for spring.
The equinox has passed and Easter looms,
but I am stuck in winter though I wake
to birdsong out my window, purple blooms
upon the porches, schools about to break
and loose their students for a teasing week
of longer shadows in the afternoon.
Surprised to hear reporters start to speak
of baseball, I forgot to watch the moon
eclipsed. I didn’t even look above
me at a comet, or around for love.