On one of those
mornings—in May
when it's
sunny and simultaneous-
ly raining—and I'm feeling,
as I shuffle distracted and
alone through soft puddles
of blossoms,
all at once—tired,
hopeful, slack,
smart and at least a little hungry;
I just cannot think
of any good words
that are light-
to-the-touch enough
to send
to a breeze-gentle and faraway girl.
But then
what? is any of that—here
before me
to this unself-
consciously mudglazed and
gadabout robin
plucking and gobbling
proudly—a wet
gristly earthworm
before turning,
excreting quick and then darting-
off
in any old good looking woodsy direction!
