Where the hell did the first week of April go? Already it is the seventh. I have slept little, exercised rarely, eaten sporadically, and have been rewarded with two mid term A’s, an A paper, an A quiz. All A’s. It feels like too small a reward. Though most of you, my dearest friends were busy as well yourselves, and hopefully didn’t notice, I had a few moments that pained me because I was either too sensitive or too oblivious, and in the process caused small hurts, feelings of neglect and misunderstanding.

Two forgiving, loving people right now are possibly thinking that I am over stating the case against myself. Two more of you are wondering what you missed, and if you could help. Several others are at the very least reading this with some concern. I love you for that. I am reminded of and grateful for how good you people are, and how very fortunate I am to know each of you.

I am rested today. Enough sleep, enough quiet time while drinking coffee this morning, while driving this afternoon, to sort a bit in my head, the important from the urgent. For the important stuff there is time, and even patience when needed. I feel balanced and a bit more myself today. Thank you for your patience. You people deserve the A’s.

OK, this is another response to a prompt from Richard at Poetic Asides from WritersDigest.com. Today’s assignment: Write a poem in which the first word of the title is “Until.” The challenge was pretty much open from there. For National Poetry Writing Month here is my poem which good or not, might very well be serendipitously appropriate for the seventh day:

Until I Have Time

There is no time.
	No time to think;
		No time to write;
No time to write what I am thinking;
No time to think what I am writing.

	There is no time.

There is class. 
	There are books.
		There are taxes. 
There is work,
what my father called work,
	and also my real work. 

There are children. 
	There are friends
whom I have chosen to call family.
	There is spring, birds
migration, and my dusty
binoculars. Nature 
is preparing to mate.
        There is love.

But I fear there is no time.

	Time was when I looked 
around a hospital room and chose
to burn the memory of each detail
into my sleepy brain, 
		to ingrain
the memory of the moment I first 
held	you, of the look in your eyes when
they met mine and you ceased crying.

I recall the first time, my friend,
on a swing with glasses of gin, we 
watched the water roll by. 

It seems there was time. 

	The first time, My Love
when I saw your face, when you smiled
when we said hello. How your head tilted--
you nearly blushed. 

Time went slow. 

The first time I really kissed you, 
	was there time? When the middle 
of a street in a small Pennsylvania town became 
		the world.
The clock read after midnight. You
rolled the window down. 

Time was absent.

There are bills. 
	There is rent.
		There are chores. 
And they will be done

But my lover, my friend, my son, my brother
there will always be Time,
except for those most important moments
around a table, over games or drink, 
in the woods or in the dark, when

there truly is no time.