There is snow in April.
The birds and squirrels are staying under cover.
I can only think in short bursts now.
Perhaps it helps me maintain the illusion of clarity,
the illusion of purpose.
The bird feeder is full of seed but the wind
is too cold, there is no sun.
It takes a long time to be happy.
Camus called it “a long patience.”
It too may be an illusion, anyway,
patience is a tough virtue to hoe.
Soon the sun will come out,
the wind will quiet,
the seed will be gone,
warm air will bring us out into the light
For now I’m just going to hoe this row
with all the patience I can muster,
with all the patience it takes.