not just butter

how could i forget to write if it's
like breathing, like so much love, like something
vast and necessary, how could i forget and yet
i did, spent the week out of my room, wooed by tulips,
by clouds dissipating and the vigorous onset
of spring. even the word "mid-April"
feels as ripe as tangerines, which is enough
to set my pen aside, head to the kitchen
with food in mind, real food, forget the adjectives,
and this morning i piled it on, not just butter,
but the belief that not writing is almost as good
as reverence, as the precision of sun through skylight,
as a light drift of perfume from another woman's shoulder,
which calls for breathing, too.