There is no way to write what is really in my mind tonight. I’ve tried – two deleted essays and a poem that won’t finish.
Poems have a life of their own. They only come out when they are ready. You can’t force them, just like you can’t force the expression feelings. Sometimes they come when called and sometimes unexpectedly.
I sit in my house watching a tectonic shift taking place in the world. Fear grips many, some see hope emerging, and some sew face masks. Heather sent 20 to the hospital today.
The question and the answer I want to give is elusive. It’s like a fly in the garden, there one moment and gone the next.
At my marquetry bench I slowly cut flowers into the background of a clock.
At the keyboard I wrestle with words.
In the kitchen I miss that there are mushrooms for the pizza.
Part of surviving these times is just doing as many normal things as possible.
Part of these times is how you face the world and the unknown.
I’d like to think I can face it with grace and courage.
Sadly, I often fall short and the poem remains a tangled mass of thread.