at the end of a long day

at the end of the day,
a long day, i look back
at the tiny details of my life
and wonder if a poem
exists
and i see no poem
some days, just the
creek flowing full
on a spring day, the
song of the house finch,
a bud unfurling on a
bush, nothing dramatic,
just the tiniest details
of daily life.
at the end of a long
day, there is nothing
profound to write,
nothing in particular
has sparked my interest,
i did not read the news,
or go looking for material,
it was just another day,
this is just another
poem, nothing special,
nothing particular,
just another day,
just another poem.