The tops of the dogwoods nod in tacit approval
that this is good, this wind of splayed imagination.
Winter has spit up on herself, cloaking her weathered shirt
with color and moody panache.
The cars jostle with a renewed vigor,
giving permission to ante up the brazen factor-
what with the sunshine ‘n all.
It’s time to take action since it follows the long deep.
Pulling our lives out of the garage
we trade shovels for blades,
things that scrape for things that whir,
things that were for things that are.
Quail, the Charlie Chaplins of the bird family,
spin their way across seedling lawns
in a dash to new family outings in someone’s arbor vitae.
That’s where the fat, seasoned quail go.
And somewhere, slumped in the same, dark basement
sits a lonely be-spotted, achingly white guy,
whose game hand stinks of Doritos.
It is lonely for another hand.
Thanks to www.geekscribe.com for the learned expose on geekdom.