Archive
03/15/09
Makeshift Picnic
It wasn't until I returned to my apartment building, This mildly brisk Sunday one o'clock, Toting a bag of egg- and tuna-salad sandwiches I'd just bought at the neighborhood grocery, And sat down, at a table in the garden, That I saw my first forsythias and daffodils, Heard birds composing the air, into tone poems.
Only then, reveling in my makeshift picnic, Did I realize how much I'd been missing, this spring, For failing to heed its nativity. What brought me there, today, remains a mystery. Yet I'm grateful for the impulse, that little epiphany, Which released my sequestered heart. March has always given birth to my senses.
03/15/09
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