the tip.

there is a song
on the tip
of
my tongue.

there is a poem
on the tip
of my fingers.

there is a dream
on the tip
of my mind.

but i
don't know
how to find
the
tip.

i walk and notice
the flowers
and the green
buds -
(too early)
on trees.

i recline
on brick
and feel
the coolness
left over from
winter
and the spring
that forgot
to stay.

i look
at the dog
in the yard that
already needs
to
be cut
and remember last year
when the grass
was still covered
in
snowy white.

i notice the air
that smells thick
like barbecue
and bonfires
and august.

but it's only march
and my
legs feel naked
in shorts.