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Photo by Angele Camp on Unsplash
Please forgive me while I clear my throat…
petulant petals pity party
Are we in purgatory?
I met with my besties on Zoom yesterday. Friends of many years, some living at significant distances. They’re listless, unfocused, cranky. Our world has shrunk again. O M I C R O N. It sounds like the plague.
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The white heron in the old Chinese tapestry.
With winter under way and night creeping in at 4:30 in the afternoon (in New York) I have a lot of inside time at my desk. Sitting. Sitting. Sitting. So I tried this poetry exercise over many weeks.
From my kitchen window I see the hydrangea balls of winter—dry, dusty, brittle, crunchy. They’ve shrunk to little fists.
My old Nike sneakers squeak loudly on the red oak floor under my feet.