Cockamamie Ideas

With my bucket in one hand
And the children lagging behind,
I begin summer's trek today.
All the wonders and conquests
I have stowed upstairs all year
Have rushed my mind's door,
Like the mother of sick children,
Begging for immediate attention.

I am not able to salve those burning ideas
Not yet, anyway.
They say I must rest
Before the mountains of summer are scaled.
I fear the coals will be squelched
Or at least cooled to a tolerable temperature.
I don't want to answer that universal
August question with a shrug, nothing much, you know.

Triage must work overtime, then,
Sorting every idea into those ubiquitous mental bins:
Now, later, or never.
Plans to be set, broken, then reset
Will rarely resemble my tableau
I pictured when I first mentioned
That cockamamie idea.
One more thing to put in the bucket for another time.