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Poem time. Everyone in our household is recovering or fighting a springtime snot fest, so, so sniffy. We are on vacation, which for us includes attempting a massive re-organziation and spring cleaning. So far, though, we managed to put off quite a few of the bigger projects in favor of messing around in the front yard, going for nature walks, and reading in the sun. It was so warm today that I almost believed it could be real spring soon. I even got a little pink on the shoulders.

Now though, I am sleepy from all the sun, and have been decidedly non-poemy all day long. I’ve written about my recent lack of creative pull, and I’m realizing there will be quite a few throwaway days after I’ve done this for a year. I believe, though, that it takes a lifetime to harness our creative power, and seeing as how I’ve only recently made it priority, it’s expected that there will be a few hitches in my giddyap.  One of the temptations, I can predict, is going to be the weather. We had a long winter, as you know, and as the light returns, coming in here to focus my brain is going to become more and more difficult.

It may even lead me to try morning poeming. I’ve said this before, but it hasn’t happened yet. Poem friends, mornings are not my friend. If I can manage to rise early and work before breakfast, it will be miraculous. Sometime soon, I’m going to try. Probably not while on vacation, though.

I was short on insights today, and then I got cranky at myself. How can a poet be short on insight? There are topics. Death! Love! Age! Art! Music! Insects! Weather! Springtime! Politics! Conservation! baby cow season! see…the list is endless. So, all I should have to do is pick, right? Doesn’t really seem to work like that though.

I did have this little moment today, feeling old while watching my daughters throw rocks into the lake, that got a little poemy. I’m going to go with it. It’s likely to be a quiet little one, and I’m okay with that.

Let There Come Moments

Let there come moments, when my back is hunched, and my hands have given over to their own petrification,

my fingers thickening like rock from wood,

that the mandala left by the rock plinking through the tension moves me with ease back to the shoreline where I stood straight and watched as she aimed with a child’s precision for the ring’s bullseye, anticipating the sound. Let old me on the bank reach through to school me now, in the scriptures of presence and sight, and when the pebble hits the lakebed, let there be greater wisdom than that which I already know, which is that the big regret will be, always, the minutes I choose not to look.  Let my old hands, knurled and spotted, reach through ancient water, to show me that each toss should move me closer to when it was me there, stone in hand, aim steady in the sun, preparing for the plunk.

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I can’t figure the formatting out here. I went to space it, and things got funky. Whatever. I think the poem is alright. I really did feel this today, so that’s gotta be worth something. Happy Tuesday! I hope it is sunny where you are.

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