The other poem I read Monday. It's short and sweet and springy. I used to write a lot of these "list" poems. I think I repeat the beginnings of lines like that sometimes even in longer pieces, just a few lines here and there that mirror each other.
As I sit at my cluttered desk and stare out the window in April
I think of last spring, how we used to walk hand in hand, stop to kiss at every corner.
I think of drinking wine on Amy’s porch, the sweet-sour cool earthiness of the liquid in my throat, the sparkles in the glass under streetlights and porchlight and candlelight.
I think of the trees outside this glass still bare of their leaves, try to recall when they spring forward to green.
I think of how I always seem either to be looking back or waiting for something, how I hold the past so close, look to each new season to restart my life.