I thought I could write a quick haiku this morning -
some flicker of the actual,
some brilliant thing that would say it all.
I've scribbled a list of words to prepare myself
and still it won't work.
There's too much to say
and I'm torn between the noise of the wash machine behind me
and my son's music from across the hall.
I'd rather walk along a cold river
or peer down from some dusk filled cloud
or fold myself into the air above the branches.
It's just a matter of polishing the doubtless,
curving back to the bone
or finding that swan feather you left behind.
All that and more should be part of the job.
I have done some work already:
sample pages of my heart,
curiosity,
my morning bows to the sun.
But I am soaked to the bone right now.
Once again, bewildered,
without assistance,
and waiting.