The Sparrow And The Clay Poem by Frank Avon

What I want to write about today
is not that strong heart that's outdoing itself
leaving me breathless -
not all those tests,
that stress,
not that.

What I want to write about today
is not the cloudy day
- this cloudy April day -
with its brisk cool breeze.

The little sparrow on a limb
of the redbud outside my window,
the jonquils still abloom,
a new burgundy tulip,
the wisteria suddenly greening all over,
clumps of violets here and there,
grass unmown,
something pink I can't name -

all these
call me.

Once I would have....

But what I want to write about today
is tomorrow -
the sunflowers I will plant
and the red poppies,
the gladioli bulbs,
coleus and impatiens
around the roots of the trees,
and a mound of wildflowers,
the fescue with which I will resod the lawn,
the flagstones
with which I'll pave
the path around the house,
along the patio.

No, what I want to write about today
is not tomorrow
but

forever,

'forever warm and still to be enjoyed,
forever panting, and forever young'

The best is yet to be,
some poet said,
and said and said.
The rest I can't recall.
The best is not the all.

The Potter and his clay
must wait another day;
the potter's wheel's areel,
and still the potter's feel

of a clump, a bump,
to be reshaped,
remade,
still unmolded this clay,

not yet an urn,
net yet a bowl,
not yet a vase.

Today,
the sparrow:
that's what I want to write about today,
the sparrow and the clay.

It's dusky now -
twilight.
The sparrow's back
cleaning his beak
on a limb of the redbud
outside my window,
flipping to the top of the wisteria,
the very tip-top,
swaying,
then away,
away.

That's all I need
to write about today.