The point of writing in a calender
For every trip around the sun
Each month each day
Evades the obvious monster
That hunts us all as prey.
Because rhetoric can only delay.
What comes around again
And ends too soon?
It's almost May
If Easter's passed.
We must have strayed
Or rolled the stone away

Doc walked around the house as he had usually done he noted the condition of the lawn mower and the way it was ploughed into a grove of overgrown daisies and primrose. The quaint wild flowers overran Hep's yard like wildfire obliterating grass and some times even threatening the marigolds he planted around the door. These were not particularly nice daisies.
The laundry swinging from a cord had the damp cheery chemical odor of detergent, so Doc figured that his freind was up and around. Tomatoes wilted in potting containers under the sea grapes, and Doc couldn't resist an impulse to run the hose for a minute or so. The peppers looked dry too. Doc spooked a pair of ring necked doves before he closed the faucet down.
The glass in the weathered door rattled when he knocked, so Doc pulled a piece of corroded duct tape and wadded it into a corner to replace the eroded glazing.
When he knocked again the glass didn't shake. When no one answered, Doc opened the door and called "hello?"
Not expecting an answer, he pried the door open and carefully pushed it back into place.