He had nothing to write about.
Winter was gone
with its gifts and finesse,
and the furniture in his house
had nothing that needed to be said.
A soiled dish in the sink
didn’t inspire him, and
heaven didn’t seem to reside
in his lined fingers
or the fine weave of his
dress shirt, the one
that wished to tenderly
warm his chest
on this day that was chosen
to be something exceptional
for him and the plenteous universe
he astonishingly resided in.
