…..of looking at a donut shop sign.
I try to write at night but mostly fall asleep before I can begin, before I can achieve the proper state of reverie, the space that I crave to create, that I cannot seem to make the time or the energy for. But yes, the words whisper to me when I cannot catch them and slip away before I can put them in their place, before I can place them where they will live and grow into more. I put the parts of them in little boxes, little bits of hair, a leaf dropped, a bone perhaps, found in the soil, slip them into a little book that I keep in my pocket to pull out later, to try to form into something-- something more, something alive, something that can find the light to live when I can find the silence that it needs to let it grow. My days are far too noisy, my nights too short. The soul trudges on, slogs through the mud of life with little time to dig. I offer these words to myself as a balm, a hand on the shoulder, a consolation in the true sense perhaps but without a prize to offer as I cannot prise the poems from their hidden places as often as I would like, as I feel I should, as I feel I need. The soul trudges on, slogs through the mud of life with little time to dig.