on the coming of summer

most of our days are spent in fictions
telling lies & hoping for connections that last
pretending to care so much or so little
depending on their needs & our chemical [im]balances

at home I am blest with an abundance of birds
the new ones jump from the ledges of nests
when I am not watching
when I cross the kitchen

making dinner or washing dishes
the television in another room,
heads with voices, talking
the radio, computer, telephone, waiting

out the window the grass and weeds grow
there is a spot that aches to be gardened
the indoor flowers wither
the dust piles and the garage packs

items listed & never crossed out
projects never giving up on themselves
pages needing turned without annotation
all add up to what must be done

but this time nothing will be done
I will accomplish nothing
nothingness being such a goal
something will not get in my way

I cannot find that little bird
but he might just find me
when I stop flapping wings
& watch time ease by