February: Year-day 49

                                        
                                     
February: Year-day 49

Question:  Will I actually make it through
this year, writing a poem a day?  And if
I do, will I end up old, bored, and stiff,
and have more deadened than enlivened you?
I hope not.  Oh, I won't be going boo
around every corner, or paddling a skiff
through every marsh/ you walk near; but don't whiff
by unnoticing; I am somewhere, new.

You'll sense, just as you have before, the warts
on the great umber squash, the hummingbird
coptering near moss phlox, the crazy bat
yipping out of the mouth of night, the courts
of hard decisions.  Everyone knows, word,
image, play; everyone's a poet, a cat.

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