Sunday Wine

 Perhaps if this eternal rain would
end and the lawns, which squish, dry and April become
August in a cacophony of lawn-mower movements
front yard to back and those grapes, which prospered
in two thousand and nine, had been
a blue jay’s evening snack, instead of our argument,
then the china plate your grandmother presented
to you on our wedding day would still sit on its favoured
shelf, instead of in pieces in the garbage,
where so many other things have found their way.  

April is here, poetry month and I'm trying to remove to cobwebs from my writing.  Hopefully, by the end of this month, I'll be able to write something that approaches poetry...H.