[I gathered the words I had dropped]

I gathered the words I had dropped.

I picked up those seedlings spread—lost

—across pages and volumes and screen-

links and files—in depths of clicks and wire

spirals

I was—am—looking for a hinge to hold

my one side to the other, my one idea

to the next, I thought: winter

in still-warm climates was kind

of funny—a joke—, the water

that drenches or holds off, the drops

that glide across

the too-hot-

for-our-clothes

afternoon sun while

the asphalt glitters and the layer

still of frost on that one roof

that faces away, that refuses to—look—

the electric new-green of those leaves

calls to us like a—an appeal—and I feel

I have to—feel—so very

motivated, so suddenly—

mended

May I begin

•

with breakfast

or coffee, allow the day

to open from

this vantage

upon the countertop?

•

May I look

to the distance

in the yard and see folded

orange poppies, leaning

•

blue bells, a lizard

along the crack

in the concrete.

•

May I continue

along this view? May I

roll along

the neighborhood

slowly, on a bicycle, wearing

a white cap, taking up space

•

on the sidewalk.

May I watch the bees

•

a moment, may I listen to how their

admittedly projected

happiness overtakes the yard.

•

May I lay out

the seeds carefully

in furrows and water them

a bit. May they slowly

•

transform.