,
this poem is not:
that red
(wheelbarrow)
red rose, or a summer’s
day, or some weird
wild ecstasy over a Grecian
urn.
it’s not walking
in beauty nor on the road
less taken
or through some
godforsaken woods
(in snow, or otherwise).
it’s not counting
the ways
or the breaths
or the deaths of burning
moons.
it’s fresh out of
philosophy
(and plums)
and kingdoms by the sea
and ways to carry a heart
(kinda gross, if you think it through).
this poem’s really not sure
what to do,
except sit in the corner
and
(somewhat creepily)
stare at you.
In April, we poem. today is day 20, and I am tired.
Whimsygizmo's Blog 
Clever and profound… cool too!
Thank you so much, Susan.