Lazy Poet’s Lament
Waking from prescription sleep,
I move through molasses to the window.
Entranced by the fog, fields
smudged and damp with not-quite-vapor,
“I’ll write,” I think, anticipating
peace on a page.
But I’m too slow. By the time coffee’s ready
is desiccated by sunrise,
swept away by wind,
on tidying up the morning.
Harsh new clarity exposes
neglected chores that glitter with guilt.
A strand of spider-spun silk
arcs gently in the breeze,
an elegant tether from tree to earth.
I smile and put pen to paper.