Day 1

When I was just as far as I could walk
From here today,
There was an hour
All still
When leaning with my head against a flower I heard you talk.
—Robert Frost, The Telephone

Day 2

The budding twigs spread out their fan,
To catch the breezy air;
And I must think, do all I can,
That there was pleasure there.
—William Wordsworth, Lines Written in Early Spring

Day 3

I used to like being young, and I still do,
Because I think I still am. There are physical
Objections to that thought, and yet what
Fascinates me now is how obsessed I was at thirty-five
With feeling older than I was: it seemed so smart
And worldly, so fastidiously knowing to dwell so much
On time — on what it gives, what it destroys, on how it feels.
—John Koethe, A Private Singularity

Day 4

If ever there were a spring day so perfect,
so uplifted by a warm intermittent breeze

that it made you want to throw
open all the windows in the house

and unlatch the door to the canary’s cage,
indeed, rip the little door from its jamb
—Billy Collins, Today

Day 5

Crabapple blossoms, blown,
fall and flutter down,

littering like confetti
the main street of our city.

Confetti… the simile
quickens, and you and I

walking sometime later
amidst the drifted litter

come to realize
that we feel ill at ease

in this belated beauty
since, if it is confetti

it means we have missed
some great things seen by most:
—Bill Coyle, Fallen 

Day 6

Trickles through my fingers, ensconced in a dune cleft, sun
Warmed and breeze cooled. This peace is full of sounds and
Movement. A couple passes, jogging. A dog passes, barking
And running. My nose runs, a little. Just a drip. Left over
From winter. How long ago it seems! All spring and summer stretch
Ahead, a roadway lined by roses and thunder. “It will be here
Before you know it.”
—James Schuyler, Hymn to Life

Day 7

I could clean
The garage, weed the garden,
Or get out the shears and
Prune the rose bushes back.
Yes, a thousand things
This beautiful April morning.
But I’ve decided to just lie
Here in this old hammock,
Rocking like a lazy metronome,
And wait for the day lilies
To open.
—Robert Hedin,This Morning I Could Do A Thousand Things