Idylls of Isolation: NaPoWriMo 2020 - 2. April 8 - April 15

April 8

 

A raindrop’s life is short,

no time for sex or sport

and worse I must report:

the ground it must abort.

 

Compare this to the gnat

long weeks an insect brat

on bitten blood grown fat,

ends in a messy splat.

 

And what to make of man

whose time the years may span:

a charted course he ran

that rarely went to plan.

 

Much longer lasts the sun,

which has more time for fun;

when our old world is done,

it’s hardly just begun.

 

 

April 9

 

Local skunks

Convened a spring meeting

Beneath my bedroom window last night

Animatedly discussing pressing issues

And trading hibernations stories,

Visions which extended

All winter.

 

 

April 10

 

Once we lay

abed to play

one whole day.

 

Woe and care

which we must bear

left grey hair.

 

Now I miss

the soft sweet bliss

of your kiss.

 

 

April 11

 

On this ordinary day,

Bright jewels hang from bare branches

Just beyond my windowpane

Reflecting dawn’s first foray

Through the clouds retreating east;

On this ordinary day

robins in competition

sing love’s complex arias

for the privilege to nest

in the tangled trumpet vine;

On this ordinary day,

a thousand bright blue stars shine

amidst the first fresh green shoots

while forsythia’s comet

trails blossoms brighter than the sun;

And though these moments be mine,

blessing sight and memory,

still they pale when set beside

your extraordinary smile

on this ordinary day.

 

 

 

April 12

 

The remains,

stacked in the kitchen sink,

are what’s left of the holiday feast;

no morsel, no stray crumb of lemon meringue pie

survived to return to the counter,

yet their savory scents

linger on.

 

 

 

April 13,

 

When one thinks of a number line,

its members all arranged so fine,

temptation says the row is packed

with ceaseless counts of either sign.

 

But if one wants to be exact

about the way the deck is stacked,

‘tween digits there’s a ton of space –

it’s infinite, in point of fact.

 

Hang on a sec, let’s make the case:

for every tiny decimal place,

a void on either side will be,

with nothing in its cold embrace.

 

Now here’s a pretty oddity;

split steps more thin than filigree

both space and number must entwine

in equal measures endlessly.

 

 

April 14

 

Are we

imaginary

friends, characters written

in some scribbler’s sad, half-formed

story,

our parts

one dimensional, unevolved,

incapable of change,

in how we see

ourselves?