i wrote another poem first

i decided to sit outside and write a poem
about what i thought i was feeling

now my hair is a mess, thick with the hidden moisture
of a spring day and a cool breeze and a blue sky.

i am drenched with the smell of coffee.

my hands are warm and puffy
from humidity and from wearing a sweater
on a seventy-degree sunny day.

i wrote another poem first about what i thought i felt

but i am walking inside happier because of the spring day,
and because i like the way that the layers of my skirt
float and flutter around my knees
and make me feel like i'm on the beach eating ice cream.

i forget my forgetfulness when a blonde haired
crawling baby with a pink jacket
blocks my way and gives me a toothless
look of wonder and confusion,
deciding whether to wave at me in trust,
or creep towards her father

i wrote another poem before this one,
pretending that i had taken for granted
the sound of guitars and singing,
the gargoyle-doorstop that i noticed for the first time,
the stones in the building, the bell in the cupola,
the way that april finally remembered how to be spring.

i wrote another poem before this one,
pretty, sophisticated, and provocative,
but remembered that
there's something joyous in raucous
and irrational optimism
and being slightly messy.