Good grief, it’s been a month since I’ve written. I’ve come here, started, saved drafts even, but the inner writer part of me has been frozen.
Now, after three weeks of transition and change on most every level I can think of, it’s day two of flu on the couch. To my great relief, the gears that hold my inner pen begin to thaw. I’m going with it. Interesting.
East
cold air
broken chair
button loose
the gentle noose
of inertia
west
It’s on the table
The pen, the page
the care full smile
the insistent rage
North up
it’s on my mind
a kind of dissonance
a lack of usefulness
make do with less
in the way I feel
under the disguises
teeth and eyes
teeth and eyes
it’s in my thoughts
a sniff of change
a rearrangement
in the value of love
the how, the why
and the why not.
