April 19, 2019: REPORT
Here in Vermont, for instance, it’s Spring.
A robin sings in the scraggly pines
next to the drive. The sun rises through deep
pink cloud, so rain coming. Daffodil spikes,
free at last from the long weight
of snow, have pushed up through the mass of flat
leaves out by the mailbox.The dog says
a rabbit, or something, under the yews.
The house smells like fresh coffee. The ink flows
easy, like the inconsequential
run-off brook through the woods beside the house.
The house still stands.