At Bay

How to begin this sober day of play
not to go down none subtle catastrophe
words wander away, branch out from here
blue curly birds may have places to rest.

Ads at bay, nestled in floral concertina
why can’t you be that guy
who saves the day
from grief and grinding gears

from fears like ghosts with no roots
little bugs that crawl and sneak into ears
why can’t you understand
we don’t need a plan

we need a place to live in peaches
round and soft and downy fur –
who is talking now and to whom
and to what end these words wind

their way through the day as the snow melts
and shows the same stuff still from yesterday
the cover of the snow held such promise
but its magic doesn’t stick here long

and when the sun returns so it will
we’ll have work to keep busy and full
roads to finish out of these forests
into clearings of Monet’s bright flowers.

The light changes quickly always anew
in the dark songs of what we see
in the light tricks of what we worry
about the dark in the light.

Why can’t you be that guy
who comes to save the day
without words without song
keeps his promise all night long.