Wandering around in the yard
looking up at these gigantic oaks,
bare branches, April, too early for new leaves.
It may rain.
Neighbors getting their mow on,
blowing the last vestiges of winter
out of their driveways and flowerbeds.
My own lawn, freshly mowed.
If it were warmer and dry
I might be lying in the grass,
kicking a ball around with my boy,
or batting the badminton birdy
back and forth for the record,
but it’s cold and kind of damp.
He’s inside watching cartoons,
she’s inside writing songs,
and I’m outside looking up at trees.
I’ll go in soon, play some drums,
sing a song or two,
write a poem.
Tonight, friends visit.
If every day could be like this one,
there’d be no need for weekends.
This is what we need.
No hurry. No anxiety.
Inclination and time to do things we love.
Look up at the trees.
Notes: I finished this perfect day poem just in time to discover the boy is running a fever and the friends won’t be visiting after all. Made me not want to post this piece–just because, you know, it no longer rang true, disappointed as we all are to be sick and to have to miss out on seeing some friends we haven’t seen in a while. Well, it could be worse–he could be sicker. Those songs might not have been written. And this poem–I can read the poem and go to that place again. There’s always those trees, and the friends will come another day.