Today Should Be Different

Text within this block will maintain its original spacing when published

There are two dead branches on the dappled willow
that I could easily snip off, and a vagrant clump
of shepherd's warning between the walk and blueberries
that I should dig up and move to the other corner,
but I committed Sundays to being different,
and the yard is among the hundred other things
I fight the urge to not put off until tomorrow
what can be done today.
The tough part is, I'm not exactly sure what
I'm fighting for. Perhaps it's a gut thing.
An innate need to make at least one day
different. A vital, unnamable desire to create
something worth anticipating and remembering.
Looking up at the waxy green cottonwood leaves
dance against a sky that matches perfectly
the crayon we always went for first
when coloring was the entirety of our to-do list,
I can't shake the restlessness of not getting something done.
The blare of a neighbor's mower
multiplies my angst.
I recognize a Cardinal's call but am not sure
if the others are Warblers or Grosbeaks
as they crisscross open spaces between the trees.
And despite what that good book says,
these birds work as if tomorrow depends on it,
and on a Sunday no less,
while I watch and wonder why I feel
as if I'm wasting this moment.