The first day

How often have I started over? Every poem is a new shot. Each book. Mondays are never fun, not because they represent the chance to begin again but because they often feel like the same old drudgery, replayed. Today—though it is all gray and rain and yellow leaves fallen and damp chill—I intend to do differently. Also, long overdue to dig into the book I’ve been just flitting around the edges of like a moth. Time to burn.