I just don't have the vim, the heart, the wit,
clearheadedness, the gumption, the desire
to write a sonnet this morning. I just can't.
But if I could manage, I'd tell my reader
that it is late winter and I'm quite eager
to say get lost to all the frost and ice
and welcome days of pollen, of glad young
humans with lively faces, of frisbees flung
by the Charles, of sandals and toe-rings.
Weary I am of lacksleep and the cold.
Swerveless, determined, a factory-belt
conveys me slowly, irreversibly,
through Decade Six. How did I get so old?
Rooftop snow that April cannot melt.
Poetry by Uncle Meridian
Read 52 times
Written on 2023-03-09 at 12:47
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by Uncle Meridian