Better Things To Do
The kitchen sink’s piled high with cups and plates,
Old cobwebs lace the corners of each room,
But primal instincts wake the urge to mate,
And birdsong sweeps away tired winter’s gloom.
The flowers are shaking out their filmy skirts,
The trees, once gaunt, are dressed in vibrant green;
These feelings that the changing year exerts
Are not connected with an urge to clean.
The thoughts that fill my mind ignore the frame
Now battered by the march of time and tide;
The rising sap still sets my flesh aflame
Compelling me to put all chores aside.
Too soon the dust and I will coalesce,
To waste the time till then is to transgress.