Truant from April chores
I daydream in a chair
beneath a tree that scatters
its petals when it stirs,
the way a girl might scatter
blossoms before a litter
that brings a self-made god
exultant down her road,
while Calvinistic bees
insist that glory’s brief.
Extend the allegory:
should petals fall before me?
I’ve not been made aware
of having won a war,
and I did not design
a bridge or new vaccine.
The leaves against my fence
betray my indolence.
This fragrant celebration
might be for anyone.
I know it’s undeserved
but that has not deterred
me from taking pleasure
in the soft spring weather.
The triumphs that I seek
are held for their own sake,
and shower us with grace
like petals on the grass.
Dear Reader,
Can I be direct with you?
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