Such a panic to leave the house
With VIP appointments pending and no gas in the car.
Traffic stops. Why, why, why (I pound the steering wheel)
On this morning of all mornings?
Maybe because the red buds are in bloom,
Sending incandescent blossoms fluttering.
And the bluebirds call from their jaunty little house,
Recently built for them and now nested.
Green hills roll to the horizon where they meet
White cotton clouds and winsome sky.
A boxy turtle plods onto the black top,
The stop sign flagman carries it
To the shady woodlands across the road.
I applaud him, “Good job!” Thumbs up.
He shrugs and blushes, pleased.
Traffic clears, the sign man waves me forward.
I must go, step on it, but I hesitate.
Leave what now seems important for what seems nuisance?
Maybe this morning of all mornings
Served this everyday bounty to propel me
Toward something more momentous,
Something full of ephemeral wonder.
Maybe.