untitled, in march

Tipped over the watering can
while her voice
through the window screen
tipped over my heart,
spilled its contents
through fire escape floor slats.

And if you were wondering,
the love in a heart
falls like a slinky—
sometimes clumsy,
sometimes pretty,
and always a little lazy
down a staircase
I’m convinced is limitless.

They say the sky is too,
that its interminable blue
goes on forever
in that honest hue,
granting its
auspice to a precious few—
an iris or two
like your orbs that leaked
those tears of you.

And if you were wondering,
the tears in your eyes
fall like melting snowflakes—
sometimes poignant,
sometimes powerful,
and always a little somber

because they don’t want to fade,
and tears would hate
if you forgot why they were made.

So I tipped over the writer’s block
in front of my notebook’s awning.
Now a new day is dawning,
and while I am yawning,
I am ready for its grace:

It begins here in the garden
with the neglected can of tin.