indeed it lingers,
after its first stinging,
compact and perfect,
not a word extra,
the slow and measured
pace of self realization
the accidental poet
arrived in March,
and lingers into April,
causeway of my tears,
envious of the bravery
of one so daring young
you bump into strangers,
apologize after being stung
and stunned, before the slow
realization that you, the one,
she alters, the first poem read,
this day, lingers still and into on
the fleeting ephemeral of spring,
born in rain, blooming in May,
and written, this note to self,
hid in the forest of shade loving
short lived beauty blooming,
it feeds the forest, feeds me
and unsurprisingly
I print it, and like a sticky note
attach it to my refrigerator door
an act of poetic justice,
a reminder
to do it better, even perfect?
4:08am
Apr 9 2026. <nml>