Wasted Hours

There was a day I wasted long ago, Lying upon a hillside in the sun⁠— An April day of wind and drifting clouds, An idle day and all my work undone. The little peach trees with their coral skirts Were dancing up the hillside in the breeze; The gray walled meadows gleamed like bits of jade Against the crimson bloom of maple trees. And I could smell the warmth of trodden grass, The coolness of a freshly harrowed field; And I could hear a bluebird’s wistful song Of love and beauty only half revealed. I have forgotten many April days But one there is that comes to haunt me still⁠— A day of feathered trees and windy skies And wasted hours on a sunlit hill.