I have been thinking a lot about the word Dayenu, which we hear each year at the Passover seder.

I started, this morning, by writing whatever came out of my brain…here’s a sample of the Alice-in-Wonderland-ness of it all …

The best thing about him (besides his name)?

Today while the sun and the clouds chase about,
and the wind is a mousy mild,
four puppies and I, we fly through the fields
while the trees stand single-filed.

Because I put on winter underwear, a purple turtleneck and a magenta ski jacket and went for a walk hoping to find some stuff to make a way cool card for you …

My tail leaves a trail of elegant catness
My dangerous eyes are a light shade of green
It takes work to maintain my sinuous fatness
Though I may look youthful, today I’m thirteen.

I could write about procrastinating. But wait. I have to go to the post office …

My friends are the hem.
The next circle’s uncles, aunts, cousins and kin.

They orbit my brother, dad, sisters, and mother-
circles in circles in circles within.

I walk by your desk.
I walk past you in the hall.
I’m pretty sure you don’t know me at all.

My friend Lara Hall is an orthopedic nurse, an exercise instructor and a masseuse. She knows all the muscles and ligaments and tendons and bones …

Pepper trees, grass and bees
Edging golf course greenery
Panorama of the sea
Pacific ocean majesty

Some1 ran 2 the store 4 candles.
5 and 7 helped 6 decor-8 the living room.
“Here he comes!” whispered 5, who’d been paying a-10-tion.

Today’s poem is a haiku in honor of the wonderful little Montana Branch library in Santa Monica where I grew up.

How many of the five senses can I cram into one poem? And how many “s” words?

I found a drum with just two dents.
You found a flute-ish thing that hums.
Zak found a bell, a little bent.
Sam picked us each a purple plum.

At first it was a thrill. I felt sort of famous …

“You can’t be Robert Frostette every night.”

Until today, what I liked about George
wasn’t his time at Valley Forge,
or that he was one of the tallest of all
(he stood over six foot two inches tall)

There are all kinds of birthdays. Today I was thinking about how a book is born. But this poem didn’t want to be about all the edits, the changes, the stumbles.

You were a princess, lost; I
was a little bird. Nobody cared
where we went or how we sang.
A storm, I seem to remember, a giant
wave, some kind of crash at the end,
I think we cried when they took off our wings.

Before my day started, I went to a coffee shop and treated myself to a rare decaf latte.
“Name?”  The barista asked. “April,”
I said. “It’s your month!” he said as he wrote my name on the cup in black marker.

Mama, with her crinkly smiling eyes made the cake
Daddy’s favorite: chocolate with butter cream in between
my favorite: lavender frosting

How does it feel to cross over this creek,
to fly from tree to tree to you?
To find, in the midst of the jungle a few
readers discerning, kind and true?

How can I resist writing a poem to Shirley Temple?

I can’t ignore the birthday of the world.

Thin cardboard boxes that once held
Plantation Mint tea,
aspirin, cold remedies,
matzos!

I didn’t even get a vote-
I’m supposed to write a thank you note.
I wish I knew what Marty wrote
when he was writing thank you notes.

Papa holds my hand, we walk on cement past wire cages.
Who is fierce, who’s a crier, who is our dog?

So nothing is matter
but it all matters in an effervescent sort of way,
an it’s-okay-if-I-just-swim-here-for-a-while way.

Before I share the last poem, I have a beautiful story to tell you …