So much depends on the blue umbrella. Dilated in the eye of the green lawn, its shadow falls on the red wheelbarrow, while dozing in the sun the yellow crocus folds its hands around a secret. Dr. Williams left out that detail, then he removed my appendix. I’m not ashamed to admit that poem puzzled me, until I realized it’s about shoveling shit out of a chicken coop, which made it both less interesting and fascinating at the same time. Most of what I write is a load of poo too. Who am I fooling? I couldn’t diagnose your illness for all the throat lozenges in the world. Read two sonnets and call me in the morning. And when you get the urge to write, do what I do. Wait for a rainy day and watch the drops fall from heaven like so many syllables glazing each line of thought. But don’t think too much about it. So much depends on those gray areas without rhyme or reason. 

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