I always want
to write a poem
on a Saturday. .

It’s such a good day
to recover,
with friend or family,
a neighbor who has made your day
or your trusty, hunky lover,

or watch
the passing humming bird
who hovers,

or, perhaps you may
choose to moon over
a baby daisy,
or a sparkling springtime clover.

It’s also good
for proud activity,
a cheer-or-jeer-
and clamor-day,
a get-fresh-air-,
or chill-indoors-,
’cause-it-doesn’t-so-much-matter-day. . .

And, if it doesn’t
go quite right,
or plans did not
quite come to light,

you still may find
that you have grabbed
a sliver-slice of precious life
enough your deep core to electrify,
to last you as the week goes by,

and even maybe,
before the sun its set shall see,
you even got
to play some Frisbee
on empty lot
or beach or lawn,
in a good run with old Rover. . .

And if you can’t
fit all this in
to just one day,
it probably is still okay–

Next week comes
one more Saturday,

with which
you freshly can begin,
according to your will and say,
your new set course
in which you work or rest or play
that you can steer in your own way,
when Saturday starts over.

This entry was posted in Days of the Week, Poetic Musing (Longer Poems), Poetry, Uncategorized. Bookmark the permalink.

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