National Poetry Month: Day Eight

Poetry

The oak in the front yard
coats everything
in a layer of sticky yellow.

Max says
the trees
are trying to kill us.

In the afternoon traffic
on the way to the dentist
we try to define poetry.

Max leans toward
what it is not
the ineffable
the speaking of what cannot be said.

Today I lean toward
ordinary people
paying attention.

Spring
I say
is driving the birds crazy.