A blogger I follow received a three-month sabbatical and noted while he had grand plans, he found it more grand to ease into the “mundane” activities of playing and reading with his children, taking walks, traveling, visiting his parents, and such. He seemed a little surprised by this.

Teachers pant for June more, you lovely
little monsters. Adult nerves handle one
question every few seconds poorly—three,
simultaneously uttered, become background
noise to our crumbling sense of purpose.

First day:
lie on the couch
oriented, right hand
reaching books, 
water, coffee.
Sleep when it occurs.
Open door policy
for cats, who wander,
wonder at this new
couch denizen.
Ignore phone calls.
Feel the throbbing
subside in feet which
bore all for eight hours,
one hundred eighty days.

Second day:
wander house
wander yard
wonder why they
look different. See
things to do. Know
their time has come.
Slide back to your
classroom, retrieve
forgotten things. Hide
if people come in.

Days three to seven:
attempt to forget each
day's name. Forget instead
all those things from Day Two.

Ease into being, doing for
its own sake. Mind ascends
to philosophy, theory, to
next-year-will-be-different,
dwells in growing visions
of daily perfection, ignores
realities learned before.

August:
Take joy in planning,
attacking a new year.
Feel like Superman
putting things back
together. Laugh. 

Teachers pant for August more, 
you whining recalcitrants. Our
dreams rebuilt, our minds alert,
our souls recharged—we're ready 
to grapple once again. Ready to
push summer back into its closet.

---

67/100
“One hundred poems in one hundred days!” (but my sense of time is fluid)
two-thirds to being there