One excursion three weeks past,
The next not until three weeks hence,
The weather cloudy, very windy,
No one near, no tasks of note,
Engrossing, noisome, in between,
Nothing to read, nothing to watch,
Not many signs that spring is here,
I snatch at boredom, shapeless thing,
To be a poem's armature.  I tell myself
That, if Chardin could use dead bunnies
As his subjects, I should be excused
For making my own ennui mine.