Stymied and Stumped

I sit, watching the neighbor’s dog gobble
rabbit droppings where the snow has melted.
And I procrastinate. That’s what I’ve been doing
for the last half hour. Disgusting, but true.

Words are elusive today,
scarce as a perfect summer sky.
Just when I think I have them in my sights,
they lift off and dissipate, colors fading
a flock of distant parrots screeching into the distance.

I rummage through my memory for
snippets of intoxicating conversation
but most are coy and refuse to step forward. The few
that do answer my plea begin with grace but then
stumble and reel and crash absurdly.

It’s grown late. The dog has been called inside.
The sky is dimming. My quiet time is nearly done.
And still I sit, stymied and stumped, waiting for
those damnable words I hold so dear.