Inert

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.

cold air

broken chair

button loose

the gentle noose

of inertia

It’s on the table

The pen, the page

the care full smile

the insistent rage

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.