Wow, it’s been a year. Well, not quite since I continued on for 100 days of poems.  But I came into the month having been writing for Writer’s Village University classes in the previous Decembers.  My skills were whetted, my pen was familiar with the page, fluent with words.  I discovered prose poems.  It was magnificent.

This year I haven’t written since losing all 50K+ words of my NaNoWriMo novel to spilled coffee and a ruined computer (that was sometime in November).  Have been stitching (hand making clothes and repairs) for months.  The page doesn’t beckon.  All the nouns and verbs, adjectives and adverbs have flown away with this morning’s wild, cold wind.

I shall, however, persist, knowing that practice will eventually (hopefully before the end of the month) entice them back.  And I remind myself that it is the process not the product that it important – always a good lesson to relearn.

Untitled (way too early to figure out a title – always the hardest thing for me)

Last night I dreamed of trying to write
the words hiding, the paper full of print
leaving no space for anything new.  To the side
my father (long dead) socialized with boys
from my grade school who would, like me, be
in their seventies now, all laughing at jokes
I couldn’t hear.  Next to me, the woman
with ragdoll red hair, performed spoken word –
off the cuff.

This morning the weather pretends winter, the wind
making the chimes sing and only three feral cats come
for breakfast.  I sit with coffee and computer, waiting
to bloom.  Outside the window, the early daffodils dance
secure in ancient wisdom of experience that even snow
can’t kill them.  Overhead the moon lingers
as if tired of the dark, as if longing for just one glimpse
of the rose gold of the rising sun,

**

If you want to have the sound of the chimes and the wind to accompany your reading, go here.