It is some day
in March
And everything is just
a few inches from
stupid.
I think a lot about
sunlight. I don't
do much. Silence.
Silence.
It shows up, looking carefully from behind the buildings.
Slowly, at first, but it's full-on laughing an hour or
two later. It's loud and I’ve never been happier.
All of winter was a joke. I don't care anymore, I
have zest for life again and a lawn sprinkled
with dandelions. I don't care anymore.
Kitchen sink, and in it sits my plate. Someone’s spoon, too.
An artificial smell - scent? Of neon yellow lemons
hits my nose.
A sudden tenderness - I don’t know what came over me - hugs my hands.
Soft and brittle dance around my head and I remember
that I’m holding something fragile. Plate.
Plate, plate, spoon, I whisper to myself.
Lemon. So much foam, a pleasant scent. A little bit of dish soap. Spring.
March will come in late February. Oh, such a breakable thing.
I am not a smart man.
I know this - I know this, because I don't do well in school,
nor do I know how to give my love the shape of a word.
In short, I am not clever, even though I try to be.
Yet, I think
I invented something.
The softness of the cheeks, the curl of the mouth, the
little wrinkles in the corner of the eyes - on your face, then mine.
With your laughter I am accomplished.
