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With some trepidation, I’m embarking on a writing project for Camp NaNoWriMo , a month-long writing bonanza that just happens to take place during April, which is National Poetry Month.

I am dreaming big for this project. My intention is to write a sestina poem every day that responds to my daily life, incorporating epic similes and a whole bunch of other concepts that will probably only be meaningful to me, might not be evident in the finished product (assuming I make it through the month), and could very well end up being unachievable.

But like “they” say, I may as well shoot for the moon because it’ll be great even if I miss. Right? (Who’s they? I looked it up: Norman Vincent Peale )

Will there be photos for this? Certainly; I haven’t decided on the format, etc, but you’d better believe I’ll be making a photograph each day for the poem.

Regardless of where I land, I’m anticipating that this ^^^ will be me for at least an hour every day of April. Recently we got a pair of mugs from Scribbler that say (approximately) “Writing: somewhere between torture and fun.” Truth, friends.

The sestina form is relatively new to me. I find it incredibly challenging, but also fascinating in the way the repetition compels an evolution of thought. Here are the details of the form: https://poets.org/glossary/sestina

All of this is a fancy preface for the below poem, which is a warm-up for the project. Little by little I have been doing research, practice, and psyching myself up in preparation for April 1st. If you see a shooting star, please wish me luck!

All in Good Time

Jarred awake by the announcement of the time:
10am, already crazy late,
so leaping up in surprise begins the day,
a leap forward like the one made by clocks,
when after a long winter comes the spring
that pulls us out of our burrows.

When, from so many burrows
we peek out and notice how with time
the carefully orchestrated stretchy spring
of growth snaps back, however late,
we feel inside the tick of clocks,
with pencil points, we mark the day.

As the freshly awakened day
climbs with a yawn from bedded burrow,
so with a crow the clocks
brazenly announce the time,
so we see the hour is late
and pounce to action like a spring.

Deep inside, a well-worn spring
counts the hours until mid day,
cranks the sun across the sky. Later,
thoughts return to the dark burrows
where awaits the quiet time
of covering up the clocks.

Year by year, my body clocks
the slow unwinding spring
of changes over time:
the revolution of a day,
the knowledge that settles and burrows
deep within, while evening lowers, late.

Rather than never, dreams run late,
with the crazy cuckoo of many clocks,
dug up and rescued from burrows,
long-buried like bulbs awaiting spring.
Today is the day,
I re-enter time.

What I see as late is the spring
of a clock, making its way through a day
until my burrow calls me back, all in good time.