This kind of poem is what happens on a Sunday when I have an inordinate amount of work to do and simply cannot bring myself to do it. In our music ensemble, we call practicing our instruments instead of doing other homework procrasti-practicing. You can really get a lot done on the mandolin when writing a thirty-page history term paper is the alternative. Walking and writing poems are two more of the myriad of ways to procrasti-practice. In walking and writing, I find processing time for my emotions and a chance to enjoy the truly beautiful place that Beloit can be. This town isn’t the type of place that you can be lazy about having beauty handed to you. You really have to go out and look for it. Otherwise, you’ll just sit back and say the town is ugly. That’s why this Easter morning I got up, opened my laptop to do work, had some oatmeal and tea, saw the sun outside, and went out to see the world. This poem is a list of what I found:
Today the Sky Dripping Down
The halos around the stars
disappeared with the morning haze
and some sky dropped
bits of gray on my skin.
It felt like Christmas
or Easter, not like I was holy
but like I was in the middle
of energy okay
with celebrating quietly.
I was running by the library
and two turkeys trotted beside me
a squirrel hung from a tree branch by its hind legs
reaching toward an acorn on the ground
with tiny outstretched paws, hoping.
A couple–one half someone I used to love–
stopped to look at the river.
Neighborhood kids taught me
to jump their fresh drawn hopscotch
where the numbers
went up to 17
for a good and unspoken reason.
So much happened that day
even before 9:30am.