Perhaps by next week, I will have written a poem that meets the suggestion for this week. This one comes somewhere towards fitting it, in that the title is a phrase I find myself using from time to time.
And if the season’s clock jams up,
and every day I wake expecting
buds to break, and nothing happens,
and if each evening while I’m fixing dinner,
I glance outside, waiting for the evening’s stretch
to start to show, and find that I still
can’t see the bird-table any more – dark
falling early, early,
and if I never get the chance again
to hang the laundry in the air,
feel the first stir of warmth, the new breath
I would feel paralysed,
suffocated, buried in this space here
between winter and spring, locked in
a perpetual maybe, stuck in a place of longing,
with no release, pining
for a brightness I’d never see,
aching for a day when I could
turn my face up to sunshine, for a day
when I could feel the world
turn into summer.
More Poetry Thursday poems HERE.