Here I sit, at the white screen, trying to write
a poem. I promised 30 days of poems, but as

is often so, my reach exceeds my grasp. Excuse
the cliche. It just slipped out. Cliches are like that,

slippery. Put your hand in the cold water, let it drift
to numbness — watch the silvery elusive language

slip through your fingers while cliches wrap around
them, clingy, adhesive, and slippery all at once. April’s

the season for spring poems, but these days open cold,
grey, windy, and the blooms close tight, offering no

metaphors. Keeping their secrets.