SUNDAY DINNER
Everyone rather enjoyed
the soup. Jenny frowned
at the cloudy sky because the clouds
were outstaying their welcome. She
had spent the morning picking
her way through winterberry
and wandflower; I’d been struggling
with the crossword. A question mark
hovers over how one feels about
all that happens out in the straw
and wind. All the good news is relegated
to the bottom of the page
where it lurks in the manner of
footnotes. The lady’s mantle
brushed the prince’s feather.
One ought not disturb Sunday’s peace.
Then the main course was served
and silence reigned while mouths
set about their work. I've forgotten
how to talk to people and pretend
to care. Baby’s breath
among butterflies. Touch me not
like a whispered star to a sun drop.
It strikes me everything boils down
to one very slight idea
but one very slight idea
repeated and repeated
and repeated is not enough
although it seems to be enough
for most people.
I don’t know where I’ve been
for large chunks of my life.
Lament of golden trumpet.
The afternoon was frittered away
and the day descended
into the usual pudding. Jenny
adopted several small homeless animals
and took them to her room
for safe keeping and for heart’s ease
and to admire the rain lily. If you string
all the clues together
you almost get a poem
but not quite;
at least that's what
I think. Or perhaps the queen of the meadow
bids farewell to Spring
with a Hey and a Ho and a Hey-Nonny-No.