It’s been so long since lucid thought
has found its way from pen to paper.

At first it was the season’s
fault.  Too much gray
and cold, the graveyard
the only thing that’s growing.

Then the thaw came;
Ice cracked with the same
old song.  Mountains stood
implacable as ever.

The sun, as if ashamed,
withdrew.  Grasses greened,
somewhere a flower bloomed
and still no poem.

The ink is old, the paper
yellows but persists
in staring me down.
The neighbor’s lake breaks the moon

into a million gold shards.
I wait…Slowly the wall
fresh’ painted white
begins to seem remarkable.

One doesn’t need a calendar
to know it’s April.