The One That Isn’t Going To Happen This Year

 (The one with ALMOST all the titles) 

This is the one that usually holds 
all the titles. From the whole month. 

Okay, okay, it’s a little over the top, 
                   but
(hungry like a wolf) 
she usually pulls it off, 

living large on old haunts of the heart 
(of the frog, of the poe-hum)
and loosely laid earthsong and rumble
             -praise. But these days, 
too much Monday presides. And be

-sides, who has time to reassemble 
all these disappearing footprints in hourglass 
sands, happy happenings
        and melancholy tea? 

She’s feeling somewhat smallish, 
(better) brawl-ish, full of lively
-hoods and furry things. 

(Something about dragons. Frogs again, maybe? 
A princess or two, on the run? A stun of sky?) 

She’s throwing in the 
(horseshoes, hand grenades) 
towel. A hymn. That hum. 
That gargoyle one that never 
got written. She’s still smitten 

                                 (duh)

with moon. Dandelions. Crows. 
(and apparently dwarves). Who knows 
where it all comes from. Her hairdresser. 
                          Her muse. The snooze 
button. The gluttony of the whirled. 

Poem pockets, northward nonchalance
                                  and more. 

Please, 
(stop me if you’ve heard this one before.)

::
In April, she poems. This is the one with (almost) all the titles.