The stack of papers
on my desk sighs
in exasperation.
They've been trying for days
to get my attention.
They grow bold, tall,
attempt to lure me by adding
a few poems to the mix.
When I stand near, they
quiver in anticipation
of the ink they long for,
the grade they need to be given.
But it is the leather-bound journal,
Celtic knot button clasp that
I've been turning to lately,
because it's April and I am.
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