Dead beat after a day
of digging
lifting heavy shovelfulls
of pungent horse manure
and stuffing rose
and holly clippings deep
into the yardwaste bin
now with the still of evening
settling in to do this other work
I find myself
staring at words that
show up as if on their own
across the laptop screen
the mind keeps drifting
eyes refuse to stay propped open
and the part of me that
generally does an OK job
pretending to be present
and awake keeps nodding off
so it's quite obvious
there's no way any self-respecting
poem would choose to leave its hiding
place or even poke its head out
like the providential groundhog
to evaluate the weather
before turning tail and heading
back inside